“Like I’ve said before, sir. It’s better that you don’t know.”
Chapter 25
Sergeant Major Riddle heard the Strykers long before he saw them. Their powerful diesel engines made a distinctive, deep rattle on the move that easily drowned out the sounds of the HUMVEEs that accompanied them. The 10th Mountain Division bubbas decided to roll in heavy on this one, or they were “ordered to” by these mysterious federal goons everyone seemed to be talking about. Either way, his strategy would be the same. Give them some shit for a little while; then give them what they wanted, which in this case would be absolutely nothing. He had no idea where Major Smith was headed, and Special Purpose Force Bravo’s GPS tracking systems were on the fritz again.
“The guard post at Apple Street says they have a convoy of vehicles approaching,” said one of the sergeants seated at the battalion tactical operations center (TOC) communications desk. “Mix of HUMVEEs and Strykers.”
“I think I’ll step outside for some fresh air,” said Riddle. “Best if the rest of you stay inside.”
“You sure you don’t want some backup, Sergeant Major?” said Captain Abrahams.
“You’ll get your turn, sir,” said Riddle. “I guarantee they’re not going to leave without speaking to you. No sense in giving them what they want right away.”
Abrahams had been temporarily promoted to battalion operations officer (S-3) when Brigade leadership had decided to put majors in charge of the four Special Purpose Forces fielded by each battalion. He was currently the senior officer at battalion headquarters, while Lieutenant Colonel Donnelley tried to personally talk one of the other Special Purpose Force commanders out of disbanding her entire infantry company in response to being denied permission to evacuate the staff at the VA hospital. Smith wasn’t the only one that thought something stunk about leaving those people behind—inside the kill box.
“I didn’t mean that kind of backup,” said Abrahams. “Something tells me a captain isn’t going to impress them.”
“I got that covered,” said Riddle.
“I’ll be here,” said Abrahams.
“Guard post is asking for instructions,” said the communications sergeant.
“I say let them through. Direct them here,” said Riddle. “The sooner we show them that the nest is empty, the better.”
Abrahams nodded. “Let them through.”
Riddle pushed through the flap, stepping into another steamy central Indiana day. He was still getting used to this Midwest summer heat. A native New Englander, he’d seen his share of balmy days, but it usually came as a two-week heat wave in late July or August. Here it started in the middle of May and didn’t let up until the end of September. Air-conditioning was a twenty-four-hour-a-day necessity here. Back east it was something you dragged up from the basement and jammed into the windows during a heat wave.
He walked toward Apple Street, hoping to flag them down before they started driving their clumsy armored vehicles through Hancock County Fairgrounds looking for the headquarters tent. The deep rumble of the Stryker engines grew louder, drawing a few soldiers out of the tents assembled along Park Avenue. Most of the battalion was situated in the trailer parking grounds flanking the road.
The convoy turned off Apple Street and pointed in his direction. He gave them a quick wave, making sure to grab their attention. His gesture had the desired effect. The lead vehicle, a gray up-armored HUMVEE with no unit markings, stopped several feet in front of him, the rest of the convoy falling in behind it. Three Strykers and one more mystery HUMVEE.
Soldiers from the closest Stryker dismounted, assembling on the right side of the road. When they had fallen into some semblance of a squad formation, the doors to the two HUMVEEs opened simultaneously, disgorging a motley crew of armed men. He recognized their type immediately. Mercenaries who called themselves contractors. Same thing. A fucking scourge—every one of them. They approached him as a group, tough looks plastered on their bearded, but manicured faces. A stocky guy hiding half of his face behind a black and white shemagh stepped forward, cocking his head slightly. He hated these poseurs.
“Welcome to second battalion, one hundred and fifty first regiment. Indiana National Guard,” said Riddle.
“We need to see the battalion commander,” said shemagh guy, forgetting to lower the scarf.
“Sorry. Didn’t hear what you said. You can lower that—sandstorm is over.”
The man didn’t look amused, stuffing the shemagh into his shirt. “Battalion commander. We need to see him.”
“Who’s we?” said Riddle. “I don’t see any unit markings. I recognize 10th Mountain Division.”
The man produced a military-grade tablet and held it out for Riddle to inspect. Riddle did his best to make any sense of the green text, shrugging his shoulders.
“Cool gadget,” said Riddle. “I’m just not sure what it means in terms of authority or—anything, really.”
“Where’s your scanner?” said the mercenary.
“In my HUMVEE,” said Riddle, pointing back the way he came. “Down there. Maybe the 10th Mountain guys can shed some light on this.”
“They have nothing to do with this,” said the man.
“Really? They just follow you guys around because they’re bored?”
“This is all the authority you need,” said the man, shaking the tablet in his hand.
“A child’s toy with a barcode I can’t read? Nice try,” said Riddle. “What are you guys here for?”
“That’s none of your business,” said the man. “I need to speak with the battalion commander.”
One of the 10th Mountain Division soldiers broke away from his squad and approached the group. The peacemaker. Maybe the military commander in charge of area operations had attached soldiers to these mercenaries for a reason.
“You’re in the wrong place for that,” said Riddle. “He’s in the field.”
“That’s not what we were told,” said the guy.
“What was your name?” said Riddle.
“Joe.”
“Joe,” he said, pausing. “The battalion CO isn’t here, and nothing on that screen can change that.”
“Is there a problem, Sergeant Major?” said the soldier who had just arrived.
Riddle immediately spotted the captain insignia on the front of his tactical vest and stood at attention.
“Negative, sir,” said Riddle. “Just trying to unravel the mystery wrapped in this tablet thing they seem to hold so dear.”
The captain chuckled. “It’s pretty fucking ridiculous. I give you that. Unfortunately, the bar code on that tablet pretty much gives these guys carte blanche to do as they please—within limits.”
“No limits,” said Joe.
The captain shook his head. “Anyway. At ease, Sergeant Major. Is your battalion CO really in the field?”
“Affirmative. Departed about two hours ago.”
“What was his destination?” said Joe.
“I have no idea. I wasn’t part of the planning process.”
“You’re the battalion sergeant major, right?” said Joe.
“I’ve been temporarily assigned to SPF Bravo. We went top heavy into the city. All the majors and senior NCOs,” said Riddle. “I can introduce you to Captain Abrahams. He’s the senior officer present.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Joe. “Sounds like you can help us. I have a warrant for Major Smith’s arrest. SPF Bravo’s commander.”
“For what?”
“Once again, Sergeant Major, none of your business,” said Joe. “You should grab Captain Abrahams and have him meet us at Major Smith’s tent so we can do this right.”
“I suppose the warrant is all loaded up in that Nintendo player of yours?”
The captain could barely contain his smile, drawing a few murderous glares from the mercenaries gathered around Joe.
“Yes. I’d like to have Captain Abrahams verify it,” said Joe. “Procedure.”
“We would
n’t want to violate procedure,” said Riddle. “This way.”
They gathered outside the battalion headquarters tent, and Riddle poked his head inside. “They want to verify the warrant with you before they arrest Major Smith.”
Abrahams grabbed one of the portable code scanners from the charging station. “Do they know he’s not here?”
“Of course not,” said Riddle. “They didn’t ask.”
“Anything about the lockdown?”
“Nope.”
“This should be fun,” said Abrahams.
“Wait until you meet these pricks.”
A few minutes later, they were headed toward SPF Bravo’s bivouac site, a collection of desert-tan tents situated at the northern edge of the fairground’s grassy parking area. When they reached Smith’s tent, Riddle yanked open the entrance flap and motioned for the mercenaries to enter. The team of eight contractors readied their rifles and stacked up, entering the tent in tactical formation.
Joe stepped into the blazing sun a moment later. “It’s empty.”
“SPF Bravo is on a mission,” said Riddle.
“The entire company?”
“That’s usually how it works,” said Riddle.
“But you’re still here,” said Joe. “SPF Bravo’s senior NCO.”
“They wanted me to stay back and keep things running smoothly in the absence of the battalion CO.”
The mercenary glared at him for a moment. “How long ago did they leave?”
“Thirty…forty minutes,” said Riddle. “Emergency tasking from brigade headquarters.”
“You could have mentioned that from the start.”
“You never asked,” said Riddle. “Anything else we can help you with?”
“Where did Smith go?”
“No idea. It was very hush-hush. There’s a lot of that going on these days,” said Riddle.
Joe looked at Captain Abrahams. “I don’t suppose you know where they went?”
Abrahams just shook his head.
“Fine. I’m placing the entire battalion on lockdown,” said Joe. “Sergeant Major, you’re coming with us.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. But I’m taking you in for questioning. It’s within my authority,” said Joe, turning to Abrahams. “You saw my authority level.”
“I didn’t see a fucking thing that might convince me to hand over my sergeant major,” said Abrahams.
“Captain Russell?” said Joe. “I need a little help here.”
“My orders are to facilitate communications between scumbag federal contractors and real soldiers,” said Russell. “Sounds like they made their position clear.”
Joe shot him a look that would have ended in a fight to the death under any other circumstances. In response to his glare, the 10th Mountain Division soldiers slowly separated, maintaining neutral faces. The mercenaries mimicked their deployment. For a few seconds, it looked like the situation might go south, until Captain Russell slowly looked to his right and nodded.
The lead Stryker’s turret-mounted, remote-controlled M2HB .50-caliber machine gun pointed right at Joe, making minute adjustments to demonstrate that it was under the positive control of an operator inside the vehicle.
“We’ll be back,” said Joe. “Captain Russell, your escort services are no longer required.”
“I have my orders, Joe,” said the captain. “We’re attached at the hip.”
“We’ll see about that.”
While Joe’s mercenaries returned to their vehicles, Riddle spoke with Captain Russell.
“Sir, watch yourself. Don’t ask me how I know this, but they have resources at their disposal to eliminate your task force—and they won’t hesitate to use them.”
“That’s the impression I’ve been getting lately. Lots of inexplicable shit going on out there,” said Russell. “Good luck, Sergeant Major.”
“Same to you, sir.”
When the convoy was out of sight, Riddle turned to Captain Abrahams. “We need to relocate the battalion. ASAP.”
“Make it happen,” said Abrahams.
Chapter 26
Larsen rubbed his temples and yawned. At this point, Ragan could drive them into a ditch, and he’d welcome the break. They’d been driving through cornfield after cornfield for an hour, making sure they stayed far from any airfields or military staging areas. The route took them farther north than they had hoped, adding another hour to their journey as they backtracked through barely maintained rural roads to get back on track.
“Need a break?” he said to Ragan.
“Yeah. I’m thrashed,” she said. “You’d think they’d stop. I could use a coffee or a Red Bull.”
“Just pull over,” said Larsen. “I need to take a piss. Pardon my French.”
“Me too,” said Ragan.
“You take the cornstalks to the left. I’ll go right.”
“Deal,” she said, bringing the HUMVEE to the side of the road.
His earpiece chirped immediately. “What’s happening, Larsen?”
“Piss break.”
“We’re on a tight schedule,” said Rich.
“So is my bladder,” said Larsen, opening the door.
“Fine. Bathroom break. Refuel the vehicles while we’re stopped,” said Rich.
Larsen watched the other two vehicles pull off the road while Ragan disappeared into the corn…or maybe it was soy. He had no idea. It all looked the same to him. He walked twenty paces to the right and walked into the field.
“We need to find a gas station with diesel,” said Larsen. “Pretty sure the ten spare gallons we’re carrying isn’t going to get us where we’re going.”
Larsen estimated that the HUMVEE was getting them about eight to ten miles per gallon, and they’d already burned through half of their twenty-five-gallon tanks. One hundred and seventy miles wasn’t going to cut it. They needed to top off soon.
“I hear you,” said Rich. “Haven’t seen anything open yet.”
“We might need to take matters into our own hands,” said Larsen. “I don’t expect to see anything officially open.”
“Good point.”
A few minutes later, with Larsen behind the wheel, they were back on the road—tracking north toward Lafayette on U.S. Route 231. They’d turn east before reaching the city limits, trying to cross Interstate 65 without hitting any local checkpoints. An earlier attempt to cross Interstate 65 just north of Lebanon had been thwarted by local police.
Not having any way to scan Archer’s CTAB, and distrustful of the fact that the HUMVEEs were unmarked, they had been denied passage in what had to be the most comically frustrating encounter ever. Two police cars blocked their passage, and Rich refused to run the pathetic blockade, fearful the convoy might be reported. The same people who had shot three helicopters out of the sky. Actually, Larsen had shot all three of them out of the sky. What a day.
“Larsen, I just got good news and bad news from my technology gurus,” said Rich over the radio net.
“You mean hackers?”
“They get a little touchy about their description.”
“What’s the good news?” said Larsen.
“The backdoor virus worked. They have full access to the network in Grissom.”
“That’s great news!” said Larsen. “Upload all that shit to the whatever cloud you guys use, and call it a day. Right?”
Larsen knew that it wouldn’t be that easy. Rich had bad news, which he assumed would negate the good news.
“I wish it were that easy.”
“The bad news,” stated Larsen.
“Yes. The network doesn’t go any further than Grissom. We’re collecting some really damning information from Warren Cooper’s computer network. By the way, he isn’t a colonel of any kind.”
“He’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken colonel,” said Larsen.
Rich laughed. “That’s about the extent of his colonel-ness according to the records. Same with Archer and the guy in charge of the Fort Wayn
e incident zone.”
“How are things in Fort Wayne?”
“Bad. Ninety-plus infection rate. The whole city is on the same water system.”
“Why would they hit Fort Wayne?” said Larsen. “It’s a small city.”
“It’s one of the biggest transportation hubs crossing the Midwest,” said Rich.
“So we have to break into Grissom,” said Larsen.
“Yes. Cooper will have a direct link to the next level. Probably a CTAB or an encrypted laptop relay like the one we found in Archer’s hangar.”
“Any fallout from that investigation?” said Larsen.
“Nothing yet,” said Rich. “But it won’t be long before they start to suspect something is off. I don’t think they’ll piece everything together in time to stop us, though.”
Larsen thought about everything for several seconds, shaking his head.
“You still there?” said Rich.
“You can see me in your mirror.”
“That’s not what I meant. Are you still with me?” said Rich.
Ragan glanced at him and nodded.
“We’re still with you,” said Larsen. “But how the fuck are we going to pull this off with five shooters and two technical gurus?”
“Hackers,” said a guy with an Indian accent.
“Damn it, Gupta. Get off the net. Fuck. How many times do I have to tell you?” said another voice. “Sorry about that.”
Ragan spoke without triggering her transmitter. “Who the fuck are these people?”
“I have no idea, but they seem to know what they’re doing,” said Larsen.
“I hope so,” she said.
“Respect. Five shooters and two hackers,” said Larsen.
“I like this guy,” said Gupta.
“Seriously. How are we going to do this?” said Larsen.
“We need to go on a recruiting drive,” said Rich.
“David isn’t interested. He’s about to turn south with your AT4s and grenades.”
“I have information that will change David’s mind,” said Rich.
“Okay. Assuming you do, that’s six shooters and two hackers, against what? A few hundred soldiers and mercenaries?” said Larsen.
The Zulu Virus Chronicles Boxset (Books 1-3) Page 73