by J. F. Holmes
He scowled and said, “Just do your job.”
I took a file from General Rabin and opened the door to the interrogation room. We went in, and I pointed to Cahill, indicating that he should ‘accidently’ block the mirror. I reached into a pocket of my vest and took out a rubber door wedge, dropping in on the floor and kicking it under door. Then I sat down at the table.
The prisoner took a deep draw on his cigarette, finished it, and put the stub in an ashtray. He shook out another from a pack and offered it to me, and I said nothing, just opened the file and started reading out loud.
“Lieutenant Colonel Emil Deschamps, United States Army, Finance Branch, last assignment Fort Lee, Virginia. Missing in action since Day Three, Year One. First appeared in Mountain Republic forces 23 August Year 5, wearing Colonel’s rank. Commanded First Raider Regiment. Accused of ordering massacre of civilians at Richmond FEMA refugee camp, resulting in the death of approximately eight hundred non-combatants.”
He shook his head at that. “You’re wrong on that one. The perimeter was breached and undead got inside the wire.”
I didn’t look at him, just kept reading. It was more for Cahill’s benefit than anyone’s. He needed to know the kind of people we often went up against.
“I’m not here to discuss charges against you,” I answered him, looking down at the file, then closing it. “You’ve come a long way from a backwater passed-over Field Grade. All the way to Lieutenant General.”
“So have you, Colonel, or Sergeant Major. The Colonel Rank is brevet, isn’t it?” he mused, smiling. The man’s demeanor was calm, and it annoyed me. “Regardless, I know all about you. Commander of the famous Irregular Scout Team One, awarded the Medal of Honor twice, instrumental in stopping a military coup attempt two years ago. Never mind the trouble you’ve caused us down in Florida. Pretty good for a jumped-up NCO.”
I ignored the dig and smiled. “You know they’re going to hang you, right?”
He grinned, self-assured, and said, “Doubt it. I’ve got an ace up my sleeve, something Epson wants. I know where Holcomb is.”
Jedidiah Holcomb, self-styled “President” of the Mountain Republic. Maybe he’d been elected, maybe not. Last of the strongmen and warlords who’d popped up in the aftermath of the apocalypse, he’d been a preacher, and I think Assistant Governor, or Vice Governor, or something of one of the southern states. Brit could tell you; I couldn’t and didn’t care. We’d spent the last three years fighting the Mountain Republic tooth and nail, and I’d lost friends doing it. I understood that most of the enlisted were just regular joes like me, trying to survive, but the leadership? Traitors. Every last one of them. Traitors to the men and women who’d died trying to put this country back together.
“Tell me, did you all have any hand in that race war that broke out around Atlanta? Few years back, just before the second plague? I heard blacks and whites were going at it full bore. Intel has it that your boys in the mountains stirred things up, to keep things boiling while you got organized. Where were you after you went missing, Deschamps?” I asked, deliberately leaving off his rank. He had none, as far as I was concerned.
“That was just business. If either group had gotten their shit straight, well, they’d have been a force to be reckoned with. We didn’t care which side won, as long as neither one did. Easy as pie, too,” he said, with some self-satisfaction. “You know how things were before the outbreak, with all the Black Lives Matter crap and dumbass neo-Nazis walking through the streets with torches. All we had to do was pour some gas on the fire. Let them burn each other out, and the undead too. Alls we wanted in the MR was to be left alone.”
I glanced down at the file again. BG Rabin had been pretty thorough. “So that’s why you, let me see,” I said, tracing my hand down the page, “dealt weapons to both sides.”
He leaned forward, his smoker’s breath annoying me again. “Listen, Agostine, you’re a realistic man, and an honorable one, from what I’ve read. You know that, before the second plague, the Federal Government was headed down a real bad path. We had to be in a position of strength when they came back, so we could dictate our terms for coming back into the Union.”
“And then you invaded DC and tried to set yourselves up as the legitimate government after Seattle fell. Uh huh,” I said, reaching down to my leg and loosening up my pistol in its holster. He didn’t notice my movement, just kept talking about “might making right”, and “who’s to say your own government here in Syracuse is the legitimate one?”
“Listen, Nick. Can I call you that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just kept right on talking. “You and me, we’re soldiers, and we’re not like the politicians. We keep our word. That’s why I asked for you.”
I let him ramble on, a red mist growing over my eyes, then reached across the table and smashed him in the face with my pistol. The man howled in pain, and I shoved the table over onto him, leaning on it with all my weight and jamming the .22 magnum into his forehead. “Tell me where the fuck he is, right now!” I barked.
Behind me, Cahill started to say something, but I held up my other hand, warning him off.
“Chatta,” whimpered Deschamps and closed his eyes.
“Chattanooga?” I asked, grinding it harder, breaking the skin. Blood began to flow and run across his face, and I smelled urine as he pissed himself. He nodded, or tried to nod, and I let the pistol up.
“You’re all the same, fucking political assholes who send good men to die for your own gain. We have nothing in common, you piece of shit.” Behind me the banging on the door got louder, something metallic hitting it now.
“And I don’t make deals with traitors,” I said quietly and shot him in the knee, destroying it.
The asshole started howling in pain, and I told Cahill to bandage it. He pulled out his pressure bandage and I smacked it away. “That shit is for you or your teammate. Damnit, Cahill, think for yourself!”
With a BANG the door opened, and the Secret Service agents burst in, weapons raised. I holstered my pistol and walked out past them. In the other room, Epson sat in a chair, waiting.
“You got it out of him, of course,” he said. “Get your team ready and bring back his head.”
“We’re not assassins. Get some of your Delta guys to do it.”
He stood up, stretched, and said, “Overtasked. You’ve been sitting on your farm doing shit since you got back from Florida, and we can’t afford that.”
“Or what?”
He looked at me, studying my face. After a bit he said, “Or nothing. Do it or don’t. But if you don’t, more men and women are going to die looking for him, because they aren’t the best. Just like your buddies on Scout Team Eleven.”
“You know,” I shot back, “you should have stayed in the Army instead of getting into politics. You’ve become one of those manipulative sons of bitches.”
President Chris Epson nodded his head and said, “Thank God for our country that I am. I need you on site in Tennessee in three days, but first, something more important. Politics.” He handed me a folded card with the Presidential Seal embossed on it.
“What’s this?” I asked, suspiciously.
He laughed and said, “Invitation to the State of the Union reception. Don’t even think about not going; I sent one to your wife too.”
“You ARE a real asshole!” I exclaimed, seriously pissed off.
“I know,” he said with a laugh and walked out.
Chapter 308
“What the hell was all that?” asked Cahill as we walked back to the helo pad.
I pretended not to understand what he was talking about, because I was irritated. I had wanted to shoot the son of a bitch in the head instead of the knee. “All what?”
“Don’t play games with me!” he exclaimed. “I might not be all up on your scouting shit, but that was way out of line. We’re still a country of laws, you know.”
“Are we?” I shot back.
He looked taken aback at that. “What d
o you mean?”
“Don’t be naïve. If that jackoff in there thought he needed to suspend the Constitution again in order to save this country, he’d do it.”
“But he called for elections!” sputtered Cahill. “Hell, I voted for him!”
“Because that’s what was politically necessary,” I answered him. “Which is why he called me down here to do that little dog and pony show.” Behind us, the door banged open, and Deschamps was led out, blindfolded and limping.
Cahill heard and looked back. “Where are they taking him?” he asked.
“To a military tribunal, where his taped confession will be watched, and a General Officer will pronounce the death sentence. Then he’ll be taken to the middle of Empire Plaza and dance on the scaffold.” My answer was cold, and I could feel the noose around my own neck. That was ten years ago, and under different circumstances, I told myself.
“Confession? What…” he said again, sounding totally confused.
I stooped and faced him. “Epson called me down here to do his dirty work, and to stick to some form of legality. The guy wanted to brag to me, a Medal of Honor awardee, about what a badass he was, and make a deal. Epson knew I’d beat the crap out of him, but we’re both, in different ways, honorable men. He might have made the deal, based on what he thought was right for the country and the law, but he knew I wouldn’t.”
“I’m…I’m really confused,” he muttered.
“You should be; it took me a very long time to figure out politics at this level, and I hate it. Never mind that though, we have one day of weapons qual, one day of packing all our shit, and one day of travel. I hope you’ve jumped recently.”
The ride back to the farm was a relatively quiet one. I thought about what a mission like this meant. Each time we went out, it added up. Like every soldier, I wondered if this time was the time. Cahill just looked at the passing landscape, face impassive over the roar of the Blackhawk rotors. I wondered, with his experience and youth, if he felt the same way I did. Probably. Brit was right though, we were both hardasses.
We touched down in the field behind the house and stepped out into a maelstrom of activity. People rushed from place to place, moving olive drab crates, breaking open boxes of ammo and loading magazines. When the rotors had settled, I heard Ziv yelling at someone, telling them to move faster.
Brit stood on the porch, talking animatedly into a hand-held radio, directing things. She saw me and merely pointed down toward the river. I sighed, told Cahill to take charge of his team, and walked down a well beaten path.
“Hey Nate,” I said to the small figure sitting with a pole in the water. I sat down beside him and said, “You know we can’t eat the fish, so why do you bother?”
“I dunno. Keeps me out of everyone’s way,” he answered in a sad voice.
Neither of us said anything for a bit, until finally he asked, “Where are you going?”
“To catch a bad guy, bud.”
“Really bad?” he asked.
How do you explain politics to a seven-year-old? Jedidiah Holcomb, for all knew, loved kittens and had never personally hurt a fly. His crime was rebellion, and thousands had died at his orders.
“Bad enough that the President is sending his very best to catch him, the Irregular Scouts.”
“Like Team Eleven?” he asked. Nate knew most of the team members; many had rotated through the farm, and Brit had occasionally taken him down to Albany.
“Listening to classified briefings again, huh? Who are you, your mother?” I said and tousled his hair.
He shrugged and said, “It’s just that, well, last time you were gone a long time, and mom lost her hand. She coulda, could have, well, not died, but…”
“But turned?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he answered, but at that moment his line started ripping out of the reel. We spent the next few minutes landing a massive pike, and then even more time extracting the lure. I showed Nate how to hold the exhausted fish gently in the water while it got some oxygen, then with a mighty splash, it dove for deeper water.
“Dad, just come back. I’ll manage the farm for you, but come back in time to take in the corn.”
I looked at him, thinking of the world he’d lost. Although he did have a salvaged Xbox, there was no online gaming anymore. No texting, no cell phones. Most of all, though, he’d lost the security he should have grown up with.
“I do my best, Nate. Every time, but a man has obligations and duties that he has to follow. I don’t think you’re old enough to get that, but it’s like this. You know how you pull guard duty at night sometimes over the chicken coop with your shotgun?”
“Yeah, cause if I didn’t those goddamn, sorry Sir, I mean those darn coyotes will get in and kill ’em all,” he answered, with a bit of pride in his voice.
“Those eggs that the chickens lay contain vitamins that are necessary for all of us to live. So even though you take a risk, you still have to do it for everyone, including you, to survive and thrive.” I looked him straight in the eye and said, “And I do the same for the big picture, so we have a country that’s secure and can take care of its people.”
I saw him struggling with the concept and, like most kids, he just accepted it and moved on to things he could put into his own terms. “Well, just be careful, Dad, and make sure Ziv doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Ahhh, hero worship. Who needed a Captain America like me when you had a no shit badass Punisher for an “uncle”?
“I will,” I promised, knowing that, as soon as we hit the ground running, I’d have to put all thoughts of my family aside, way down deep in a box, locked and buried. That’s what you did to survive.
Chapter 309
The next three days were a whirlwind of preparation and planning, maps being laid out, supplies assembled and dispersed. The first argument was who to take.
“Listen,” said Chief Beck, our intel weenie. “You can’t just do your usual sneak and peek stuff. You’re going to need some firepower if you get compromised. Those civilians down there may have been, in theory, beaten, but there’s still a whole lot of hostility. You show up there in a Federal uniform, and shit will get bad.”
“Don’t tell me my job, just give me a breakdown on the strategic situation,” I answered, short from lack of sleep. In addition to getting the military end of things together, there were a thousand things to take care of on the farm.
She sighed and started in with a rundown. “Organized resistance from Mountain Republic units ended two months ago when we seized Knoxville. Lack of armor units and gasoline is what caused them to give up. That, and the civilian population was starving.”
“So where do we stand now? And what’s the undead situation?” asked Brit.
Beck unrolled a map, showing red shaded areas. “As usual, metropolitan areas are heavily infested, especially in the lowlands. Everything east of I-85 is a no-go zone, except for isolated walled villages and military outposts.”
Shifting the map a little, she pointed to southeastern Georgia. “Intel has indicated that the racial fighting has burnt itself out, but the place is a mess. Ten years have reduced the population to pretty much savagery, and all the major cities are crawling with undead. Further south in Florida –” but I interrupted her.
“We know about Florida, please focus on our target area.” Like I said, I was tired.
“Chattanooga has a Red Cross refugee camp. The locals won’t let FEMA in, and we don’t have enough forces to press the issue. The nearest COP is in Knoxville, and there’s bands of survivors, rebels, and undead wandering all over. It’s pretty much Mad Max country.”
“So we have a conundrum,” said Brit.
“A what?” said Cahill, who was sitting in the meeting.
Brit smirked and said, “You ain’t to bright, are you?”
He shot her a dirty look, and she just smiled. I think the jury was still out with her.
“It means do we go in with a really small team, counting on stealth, or
do we bring enough to fight our way out of any contact we run into?” I said, trying to tamp down the exchange of looks.
It was a tough problem. My team, with Brit, Boz, Elam, Ziv, Doc Swan, and Shona could get into, and out of, just about any place. That, and we could handle any undead that came our way. If we ran into any armed groups, however, taking even one casualty would be devastating. We’d have to hit them with overwhelming firepower, and hopefully break contact.
“Cahill,” I said, “we’re going to take your team with us. That should give us enough firepower to intimidate any squad-size element we come up against. More than that, we haul ass. Do you think you can do that?”
I watched him think about it, then he nodded, saying nothing. “That’s settled then. Now, how do we get in there without attracting too much attention?”
“I’ve got that covered,” said Brit. “The Rangers are planning on assaulting into Redstone Arsenal in three days. We ride along, jump a few dozen miles early into what’s left of Arnold Air Force base. Open runway, satellite recon shows it clear of debris.”
I looked at her as she pointed at various points on the map, and thought back almost ten years, to when we’d met. A young college student, scared shitless but using her wits to survive on her own. Now she was my right hand, planning our operations and making sure we had our best plans for going out, and more importantly, coming back.
“One other thing,” I interjected. “We have to take the reporter with us.”
A chorus of groans and objections arose from around the table, and I waited them out. “Epson wants this all over the news. The end of the Mountain Republic rebellion means the last major obstacle to a reunited country.”
“Ziv,” I said, turning to the Serb, who’d been sitting there whittling on a stick. “Are you coming with us?”
He looked over at Brit, then back at me, then he smiled a shit-eating grin. “Of course. I would not miss this for anything. You never know what might happen.”