“Oops,” she declared as her husband helped her off the table. The gymnastic like escapades they had been engaged in for most of the night was felt quickly when she stood. “Oh my,” she decreed. “I’m a little sore.”
Josh thrust his hands in the air and boomed, “Victory!”
“Whatever makes you feel better, sweetie.”
“She giveth, and she taketh away!”
“I need a shower,” his wife lamented.
“Want me to wash your front?” he asked suddenly rejuvenated.
“Thanks, but I’m good for the time being. That’s how all this started, remember? Get breakfast going, then we’ll trade,” she said as she quickly pecked him on the lips.
“Roger that, Mrs. Simmons. Starting breakfast.”
His oldest friends and Brent stood just off the porch contemplating an entry into the cabin. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak, let alone tell them that they should have closed the blinds.
James nudged Dallas shoulder as if to say, ‘you first’.
“Did you know she had a body like that,” Dallas said into the summer air.
“Lucky bastard,” his friend replied.
“Forget this,” Brent declared. “I’m not knocking on that door.”
“Give ‘em an hour?” James asked.
“Sounds good to me,” Brent responded and walked away.
“I’m with him,” James decreed and followed suit.
“I guess I could check the comms from Three Sisters,” Dallas offered as he went to catch up.
* * *
Bryan and Kristin had been handling the early morning shift in the basement of the girls’ farmhouse for so long, that the duty log started reading ‘B&K’ when they had a shift. Similar pairings were becoming more commonplace at the farm and in town. Two of Josh’s daughters were now engaged, an ‘exclusive’ relationships had developed between Mimi and Jacques as well as a number of others. Spring had definitely been in the air around McArthur as many of the couples had continued their dalliance on into summer.
When Dallas entered the basement and relayed what he and the others had witnessed outside of Josh’s cabin, Bryan decided to have a little fun and raise his friend on the walkie. The three listened as their friend informed his new bride. The threats and vulgarity emanating from the previous demure Samantha caused the room to erupt in laughter.
The trio was jolted back to reality when the channel scanner stopped and picked up an incoming call. “This message is for ‘Carolina D’, this is ‘Pennsylvania Dutch’, do you copy? Penn Dutch calling Carolina, over.”
“That’s your handle, Dallas. Ever heard of this guy,” Bryan asked.
“It’s not familiar, but that accent is a little off-putting. Especially with UN forces running around,” he answered.
As he cautiously picked up the mic, Dallas replied, “This is Carolina, go ahead Dutch, over.”
“I don’t know where you are or who you can connect with, but I was told to contact you with information, over.”
“That’s fine. What do you have for me, Dutch, over.”
“We just had about fifty Brit Peace Keepers roll through Everett, headed west toward Somerset, PA, over.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Copy that. Anything else, over.”
“They stopped to syphon gas, grabbed some food and medical supplies too, over.”
“Med supplies? Did they have wounded, over.”
“I’d say a dozen and half, over.”
“How many vehicles, over.”
“We counted eight. Some of our residents over heard them talking about Harrisburg. My guess is they had more when they entered than when they left, over.”
“Hold one,” Dallas said as he laid the mic on the table and went over to the makeshift map.
“Now where did those boys originate from, I wonder,” he muttered to himself as the others followed suit.
The maps standing before them showed the history of the last six months. Latent dry erase markings depicted the various UN troop movements throughout the eastern seaboard over time. The largest concentration, at present, was represented in the New England and Mid-Atlantic states.
“I think they are most likely coming out of New York, maybe some of the troops from West Point,” Bryan offered. “Harrisburg is too far for it to be any of these,” he concluded as he directed Dallas’s attention to Charleston and Richmond.
“You’re probably right,” Kristin offered. “Dutch said they were headin’ west, but where are they going?”
“Let’s ask ‘em and see if he can give us anything more to go on,” Dallas replied.
Bryan abruptly picked up the ruler and drew lines on the board connecting West Point with Harrisburg and Everett and stood back. His mind was in overdrive trying to figure out the latest riddle presented by the UN troops. ‘Where are they going?’ was always the first question to try and answer. On a whim, he put the straight edge back up and carried the line out.
“Hey guys, you might want to see this,” he declared.
The group spun around and glanced back at him. “Whatcha got?”
“I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”
The three stood motionless, staring at what Bryan had drawn.
Dallas crossed his arms and slowly shook his head.
After few silent moments, he acknowledged, “Well, crap. Seems that McArthur just entered the war.”
“How much time do we have?” Kristin asked.
“They could stay on I-70 and skirt the south side of Pittsburgh. That’ll take them into Wheeling, Cambridge, and Zanesville,” Dallas replied.
“Or they could duck into West Virginia and get on I-68 and head to I-79,” Bryan offered.
Dallas approached the board and followed the interstate markings on the map. “That leads them down into Morgantown. If they hit Route 50, that’ll take ‘em through Clarksburg and Parkersburg, straight to us. Either way, it’s about three hundred miles through the mountains and they’re low on fuel. We’ve got a few days depending on who or what they encounter along the way. Maybe more if they run out of gas.”
“Honeymoon’s over,” Kristin declared.
“I’ll stay on with Dutch and try to figure out which way they went and gather as much intel as I can. If I’m lucky, we’ll reach some folks that’ll be in their path and slow ‘em down. At a minimum, reduce their numbers. You two go get the exhibitionists and the others and bring them back here.”
* * *
Downtown McArthur was a flurry of activity. Colonel Sophie Desjardins and her son Philip spent the morning trying to verify Dallas’ intel. By all accounts the remains of a British Dragoon unit were headed straight for them. It was a necessary task and one they gladly accepted. If the French, Dutch, and Indian government’s involvement in complicity was known to the King, they needed to know.
Josh could be seen stomping around the Sheriff’s office seething. Not only had a friend been murdered, but they had managed to extract information. The extent of which was unknown. However, he took some solace in the fact that the Columbus gang made an attempt at some form of miscommunication by initiating contact with an incorrect safe word. Dallas was content to let him continue with the charade for a few days, completely ignoring everything the man offered.
“Okay, Daddy, here’s what I’ve got,” Katherine stated as she entered the office with Brent.
“Gimme some good news, sweetie. I don’t know how much more crap I can take today.”
She and Brent shared a glance that was missed by him.
“Okay,” she began. “First things first, you’re not going.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say? Because it sounded an awful lot like my daughter is trying to handle me.”
“I didn’t stutter and it’s not open for debate. I’m in charge, granted with a great deal of guidance from you, General Howard, James, and Gregg, but my decision is final.”
Josh had never been so conflicted in his
life. His emotions were all over the board. He hadn’t slept much and was physically exhausted. So much had happened while he and Sam had enjoyed their wedding night.
However, he was extremely proud of the leader his daughter had become. He’d had no small part in that progression. She and her sister, Layla, had both taken to their independence with trepidation, but quickly found their footing. On the flip side of that though, the man’s generosity had been exploited by TK and Benjamin from the start. The anger and hatred he felt for Tim’s ilk was all consuming.
When she received no rebuttal, she offered, “I’m taking Brent, Dallas, James, and Grappler as my principle squad leaders. You’re staying here with Sam, Gregg, and the French to help prepare for the British… should they arrive.”
The man was crestfallen and it showed in his body language.
Katherine walked over and wrapped him in a hug. “I love you, Daddy, but I need you here. This town, the camp, and Colonel Desjardins, they all know and respect you. They will follow your lead.”
As she withdrew, she kissed him on the cheek. “You wanna see my modifications? It involves tunnel rats and Sheriff Watson using the ‘big’ gun.”
A smile formed on his face.
“I can’t wait to hear it, honey.”
* * *
Jim Watson had been the Sheriff of McArthur for over twenty years. He’d arrested all manner of criminal and seen just about everything there was to offer given the depravity of man. However, in all that time, no one had ever asked him to trade on his Army experience, let alone level help level a city.
“I gotta tell ya, Josh, I’m not sure you and Katherine are fully grasping what those shells do. I’m talking four feet deep, fifteen foot wide craters. Hell, anyone inside fifty yards is either dead or wounded.”
“I understand completely, Sheriff,” his daughter replied. “All I need to know is if you are capable of giving me five rounds in quick succession.”
“Depends on how many men we have. Six is the minimum. Are we using the auto loader or loading and ramming manually?”
“You’ll find out when you get there. I’ve got six in you, Juan and his sons, the owner from Motts Military Museum, and his grandson. From what Dad found out on his way out of Columbus, the machine has been restored and maintain meticulously.”
“Okay, but what are you looking to achieve?”
“I need your best traffic cop routine. I want you to hit in and around this intersection… force the sheeple to go north to this open field,” she explained as she gestured toward the heavily creased document on the table.
Jim leaned forward and reviewed the map sprawled out before him. His immediate thoughts forced him to challenge her plan. “What’s stopping them from turning south?”
“The AEP building,” she replied casually.
He stole his attention away from the downtown Columbus map and glanced up at her, confused.
“According to our inventory, we have two dozen forty pound cratering charges remaining after sealing the tunnel. Plus Dad and Hoplite procured six crates of C4, miles of Det cord, timed fuses, and blasting caps. Now I don’t know what half that stuff is, or whether it’ll be enough, but I’ve tasked the Sappers with the demo of the Plaza One building off to the east and the AEP building down here in the south. They’ll be dropping those in the street as a very large impediment. Our tunnel rats will use the underground storm water pipes to infiltrate the city and start herding them south and west towards the crossroads. Your shelling then diverts them into this open area as they approach the river front.”
“What happens when they reach the field?”
“Checkmate,” Josh replied. “With no cover, anyone with a weapon has a choice to lay it down or…”
* * *
Secretary of Defense Lawrence ‘Larry’ Fielding entered the POTUS’ office without knocking or preamble.
“We got his ass, sir!” he proclaimed without hesitation.
“Where did you find him?” President Culpepper asked in an excited response as he stood.
“We had guy’s scanning the fence line with thermal imager’s all night. He was hiding under some brush in a shallow hole with a clear sightline to his wife’s office.”
The new Commander in Chief sensed there was more.
“And?”
“He had a high powered rifle with him, sir,” Fielding added.
“Where is he?”
“MP’s are bringing him in right now,” the SecDef answered.
“Good,” the POTUS replied almost exhausted from the weight of the effort.
After President Rayburn had been found dead in his office, the Secretary of Defense had been doggedly pursuing his murderer. He read and re-read every personnel file for every service member, staff member, and civilian on the base. For months he had made little to no progress until the remarkable happened. It wasn’t much. To the less paranoid, it would have seemed like a simple comforting gesture between two co-workers.
Unfortunately for the man now in military custody, when Larry Fielding saw it, his mind immediately warped into overdrive.
“Do you want to have a few words with him before we confront the wife?” the SecDef asked with a smile.
An equally devilish grin flashed across the President’s face.
Thirty minutes later, it was the POTUS that entered the Secretary of State’s office without knocking or preamble.
“Mr. President,” she said as he man crossed the threshold. “I didn’t think you were going to be able to attend,” she stammered as she stood.
“Gentlemen, and ladies, let us have this room.”
The assembled staff looked around the conference table quickly, confused.
The POTUS sighed.
“It means get out,” he proclaimed.
Like rats scurrying off a sinking ship, people began gathering notebooks and papers.
“Leave everything as it is. You may collect your personal belongings later,” he barked.
The staff froze, but eventually began moving toward the doors, empty handed, and exited hurriedly.
As the last of the attendees departed, President Culpepper walked to the head of his Secret Service detail and whispered, “I want every single document, flash drive, electronic file, email, and bag searched and I want each and every person detained and questioned… vigorously.” He then turned his attention to Secretary Hixton. “Please, have a seat.”
Secretary of State Chloe Hixton hesitantly did as she was instructed. “Is there something wrong?”
Culpepper chortled and replied, “Not anymore. Bring him in.”
At six feet three inches, his two hundred and fifteen pound frame struck an imposing figure. The President used that to his advantage as he lorded over the diminutive woman.
“It seems your husband isn’t quite the man we thought he was,” Culpepper began.
The look of shock and horror on her face told him everything he needed to know.
“Bus-ted,” he stated tauntingly as her husband, bloodied and bruised, was unceremoniously shoved into a chair at the far end of the conference table.
“I’ll admit, it took some doing, but we got it figured out. Ol’ Chuckie here was quite adept at hiding the whole kit and caboodle, but unfortunately for him, he let an emotional attachment to you seal his fate. And you… the Harvard educated attorney, have managed to cause a controversy at every position you’ve held. I swear… I really don’t know how you finagled this post in Rayburn’s cabinet. You must’ve had some serious dirt on someone. At a minimum, you had everyone fooled with regard to your true ambitions, didn’t you?” he asked rhetorically.
Then the POTUS abruptly stood and began heading toward the other side of the room.
“Mr. Charles Emerson Rothchild III, born May 5th, 1975 to Donald and Ester Rothchild in Greater Manchester County, Manchester, England. He is an only child, attended Eaton and then went on to Sandhurst. Commissioned upon graduation and assigned to the 16 Air Assault Brigade in Colchester.
After that it gets a little murky. It is believed that either sometime during his career at the military college or shortly after joining the 16, he was recruited into MI6.” President Culpepper then paused and turned to his SecDef. “Have the French left anything out, Fielding?”
“The part where these two married and she brought him to the US under an assumed name, perhaps.”
“Oh, that’s right. You can understand our confusion. I mean, she claimed that he’s been dead for how many years?” the POTUS asked rhetorically as he began heading back toward Ms. Hixton. “The proverbial George Glass as it were.”
“At least five,” Fielding replied as he crossed his arms.
“So if he’s been dead for half a decade or more, I’m curious, just how long has the King been planning this little coup of his?”
“Sir, if you’ll permit me, I –,” the chief diplomat stammered.
President Culpepper, now standing in front of the guilt ridden Secretary, abruptly hit her with a brutal backhand. As she cried out in pain, her husband attempted to lunge from his seat, but was immediately stopped by the MP’s.
“No you may not!” he hissed at her. “I’ve seen enough of your ‘press conferences’ to know that whatever comes out of your mouth is a damned lie carefully crafted to cover your own ass!”
The POTUS reached down, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked her head up. “Pay attention!” he commanded as he thrust her back into the seat.
Once he had released the Secretary, he steadfastly walked across the room toward the prisoner.
“Sergeant, your sidearm please,” the President extolled the MP standing next to the restrained man.
Unflinchingly, the soldier unholstered his weapon and handed it to the Commander in Chief.
“Charles Emerson Rothchild III, given the current state of war that exists between our two countries, you have been captured as an enemy spy. You have successfully killed a sitting President of the United States and have attempt to kill his replacement. For these crimes, you have been sentenced to death. How do you plead?”
By the Dawn's Early Light Page 29