Yellowstone: Survival: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Yellowstone Series Book 4)

by Bobby Akart

  It had sounded simple enough, although a thousand questions swirled in the operator’s head such as when, where, who, and how. He’d learned years ago the why didn’t matter. Somebody smarter than he was made those decisions. Besides, it didn’t matter. He just wanted to get paid.

  He’d also learned to check his emotions and morals at the door. When you worked in the dark shadows of the world’s geopolitical underbelly, everybody was a target. Nothing, and no one, was immune from their manipulation of world events.

  The four-hour drive from Atlanta to a desolate farm located in Florida’s Panhandle was uneventful. He tuned in to the Liberty Bowl game being played in Nashville between Tennessee and Oklahoma State. He’d become a fan of American football, although it didn’t compare to his beloved soccer matches. It was the emotion of the fans that first grabbed his attention.

  The Vols were trying to recover from years of substandard play, while Oklahoma State was just coming off a probation by the NCAA for introducing potential recruits to hostesses, as they were called. When the sex-filled parties leaked to the media, Sports Illustrated in particular, the Cowboys’ football program was almost given the death penalty.

  The operator had a real name, but few people knew it. His travel documents and government identification would change periodically, printed to suit the clandestine mission. There were only a handful of operatives like him stationed on American soil. They were ghosts, living a secretive life, and only interacted with one another.

  He followed the coordinates given to him on his GPS device. He was located in the middle of the Apalachicola National Forest outside a small town called Carrabelle. Dusk was approaching as he drove down a single-lane gravel and dirt road through stands of pine trees mixed with saw palmettos.

  He checked the GPS again to be sure, and then suddenly a clearing appeared in front of him. He was surprised to see an Airbus UH-72 Lakota helicopter sitting alone. The chopper had been painted black, a divergence from its typical olive drab. In the past, the UH-72 was a light-utility helicopter utilized by Army National Guard units. As the U.S. Army moved toward the Black Hawk fleet, the UH-72s were sold to state and local law enforcement for police activities. The complete lack of markings told him this was privately operated, most likely by one shell corporation that was owned by another and so on. That was the modus operandi in his world.

  He parked his car and walked toward several vehicles and a box truck, where he was greeted by another member of his team whom he’d worked with in Venezuela.

  “Long time no see, mate,” his partner said with a smile. The two didn’t shake hands, a slight to the customary greeting in America.

  “We could’ve come from Atlanta together,” the operator lamented.

  “Nah, mate. I’d already left for Miami when the call came through. I’ve been here for hours.”

  A third man, small and unremarkable, was seated inside the helicopter. Joining him in the cargo compartment was a long black case, the kind that was designed to carry a MANPADS. Man-portable air-defense systems, or MANPADS, were shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles designed specifically to take down helicopters and punch holes in the sides of ships. The operator had used them in the Balkans years ago and was impressed with their effectiveness.

  He turned to the member of his team who had proven to be a consistent and reliable partner on their past missions together. “Any idea of where we’re going?”

  “Don’t be a drongo, mate. They haven’t said a word,” he replied in his thick Australian accent. He pointed in the direction of two men dressed in black pants, dark jackets, and navy-blue shirts. If they had not been so mysterious in their appearance, they might have been laughable. “And the men in black over there have been real tight-lipped. You wanna give ’em a try?”

  He nodded and replied, “Sure. Who’s the guy in the chopper? Is he wearing a wet suit?”

  “No idea. He’s cool as the proverbial cucumber. I tried to make conversation with him. You know, like, what’s in the case? I got nothing out of him. And yeah, he’s in a wet suit.”

  “I hate this crap,” the operator mumbled as he pulled his shoulders back, hoping to relieve some of the stress from the drive.

  Two pilots emerged from behind the chopper, with their helmets attached as if they were ready to go. He gave the pilots the once-over and then looked past them to a group of four mechanics who emerged from the back of the box truck. They were carrying a Zodiac MilPro rigid inflatable boat. A fifth man carried two duffle bags with black combat vests and headed toward him.

  One of the men in black approached. “Gentlemen, we’ll need you to get out of your civvies and into the wet suits. The combat vests will be supplemented with weapons inside the chopper. They’ve been cleaned, checked, and are ready for you.”

  “Got it, but we like to check our own weapons before we go into an op.”

  “You’ll have an hour while in flight.” The handler turned to walk away.

  “Wait, what’s with the Zodiac?”

  Without turning, the man responded, “It’s going to be strapped under the chopper.”

  The operator paused as the men approached the helicopter with the inflatable. The military-spec boat measured approximately sixteen feet long and six feet wide. From his experience, with the fuel bladders and the outboard motor in place, the weight exceeded four hundred pounds. They slowly positioned the Zodiac behind the helicopter and spoke briefly with the pilot.

  “Hey,” the operator shouted to the handler, “I’m not riding outside the chopper. You can forget that!”

  The handler ignored him and approached the helicopter to give instructions to his team. As he did, the operator and his partner changed into their gear. Within minutes, they were loaded into the chopper next to the third member of their squad and the mysterious case.

  The pilot joined them and gave them more information on their task. While the operators reviewed the packet of materials, the pilot explained the transportation apparatus.

  “Your Zodiac will be strapped to the skids of the chopper using these harnesses,” he began, showing them the heavy-duty straps similar to those utilized on a flatbed trailer of an eighteen-wheeler. “When we reach the drop-off point, there is a single latch release that will be located in the center of this compartment. Then you’ll all fast-rope into the boat.” Fast-roping was a technique using a thick rope to rappel from a helicopter onto the ground or, in this case, into a boat.

  The operator turned to the smallish man, who hovered over the large case like it was filled with gold. “What about speechless here? I take it he’s coming with us. What’s in the case?”

  “It is none of your affair,” he responded with a French accent.

  “Whoa, he does talk!” the operator exclaimed. “And he’s a Frenchy. This is a true international op. Now, you wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Chapter 3

  Undisclosed Military Installation

  Human nature hadn’t changed since the time of Cain and Abel. The act of war, however, had. In the minds of the world’s military powers, drone warfare was considered to be proximate war. The notion was related to the concept of proximate justice. Proximate justice theory posited that something was better than nothing. It allowed us to make peace with the realization that some justice meted out was better than none at all. It allowed a victim’s family to accept a life sentence as opposed to the death penalty for their loved one’s murder.

  Proximate war allowed those who wanted to inflict true bodily harm and death upon their adversaries to find some satisfaction in a lesser, albeit subdued, victory. Drone warfare accomplished that purpose. Modern military leaders fashioned themselves to be moral warriors. After World War II, after the atomic bombs were dropped onto Nagasaki and Hiroshima in Japan, the world collectively gasped, then paused to view the end result.

  To be sure, the attacks hastened the end of the massive global war, but the civilian death toll was enormous. In America, after the dust set
tled and the country resumed its routines, conversations began among its leaders as to whether the use of atomic weaponry was overkill, pardon the tone-death pun. Talks began with the U.S.S.R. and agreements were reached. The concept of mutually assured destruction was born.

  Those accords did not, however, prevent the world’s preeminent military powers, which now included China, to develop modern, advanced weaponry capable of annihilating one another. Further, with new technologies, weapons of mass destruction were created that didn’t necessarily take lives upon detonation like the atomic bombs of 1945, but the human toll was catastrophic nonetheless.

  The rampant nuclear testing of the 1950s opened scientists’ eyes to a byproduct, for lack of a better term, that, if harnessed, could be a valuable weapon in battle. An electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, was a burst of electromagnetic energy that occurred naturally during intense geomagnetic storms from the sun. As the atomic testing showed, the same result could be generated by both a nuclear detonation or a nonnuclear EMP weapon using nuclear technology.

  The highly charged gamma rays, a form of light generated by the EMP weapon, slammed into air molecules, displacing electrons. Upon impact, the negatively charged particles circulated through the atmosphere at nearly ninety percent of the speed of light. It only took a fraction of a microsecond for the targeted area to be filled with the surge of energy.

  The higher the detonation occurred above the earth’s surface, the broader the area of impact. A low-altitude EMP could be more targeted, specifically intended to impact a smaller area.

  The electromagnetic pulse could have a variety of devastating effects depending upon the type of weapon used. Today’s modern electronics and computer devices are made up of tiny circuits that cannot withstand the powerful burst of energy. The power grid, phone and internet lines, and anything interconnected to electronics melts under the abrupt pulse of energy.

  The United States, China, and Russia led the way in developing EMP technology. Once the capability was realized, then different and varied delivery mechanisms were sought. A nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missile was the first, most logical means of delivery.

  In the past decade, great advances had been made that allowed EMPs to be deployed by satellite, via directed energy weapons similar to ray guns in popular culture, and now launched from underwater, submarine drones.

  Russia, with its Kanyon project, led the way, quickly followed by the United States and China. Soon, all three nations sought to expand their underwater drone capabilities, controlled from remote destinations around the world that could launch nuclear missiles of all sizes and payloads.

  With the advent of drone warfare, nation-states could wage wars in places far from their own borders, all designed toward securing an advantage in small-scale skirmishes and counterinsurgency fights abroad.

  In the U.S., the Pentagon refers to it as drone warfare. In the U.K., military strategists call it remote warfare, which includes both drones and cyber attacks. This was considered the means to wage wars of the future. For military leaders, it was an opportunity to accomplish a strategic military objective with no loss of life to their troops. Further, it meant less public oversight and internal analysis as to whether the missions themselves were achieving their objectives. Nothing raises public scrutiny more than body bags arriving at Dover Air Force Base, especially if the mission was deemed a failure.

  As a result of this lack of oversight, in the U.S. and abroad, only those with direct involvement and knowledge of the operations would report back to the people who ordered the mission. In essence, a feedback loop of secrecy could be created, detached from criticism and accountability. The lack of transparency made independent verification of a nation’s actions near impossible.

  Plausible deniability ruled the day in a proximate war using drones.

  Chapter 4

  CityCenter Apartments

  Atlanta, Georgia

  “All right, gentlemen, let’s make one thing real clear about this op.” The former captain in the British Office for Security and Counter-Terrorism looked into the eyes of his three comrades as they prepared their gear. “We get in, place and activate our respective devices, and get out. There’ll be no radio contact, so we’re on our own inside. If you’re caught, you’re on your own too. We’ve all learned that the words plausible deniability have meaning, correct?”

  “Yeah, roger that,” mumbled one of the two Americans on his team.

  “Use the commotion and mayhem to make your exits when the time comes. Don’t leave early, because you’re sure to be caught on camera. The rally point will be at Cleopas Johnson Park to our south. Avoid walking down Northside Drive; use the neighborhood side streets instead. The feds will react quickly once the call is made to the stadium offices, and the place will be crawling once we implement the plan.”

  “Chief, we’ve never worked with our man on the inside. I don’t like trusting a mission to an unknown quantity,” commented the other American operative.

  “Yeah, I hate surprises, too.” The first man echoed his concern.

  “Our inside man is rock solid. He’s been employed here for a couple of years and is fully aware of the ramifications of the mission. Now, remember, we have a limited window of opportunity to be at the Magnum Street loading dock. Your uniforms and credentials are in these duffle bags. They’re designed to fit easily over your existing clothing, so you can discard them once inside.”

  After opening his assigned duffle, the Australian member of the team spoke up for the first time. “Very official looking. They’ve got the Mercedes logo on the sleeves and maintenance stitched across the pocket.”

  The team leader nodded. “They’re actual uniforms. Like your credentials, they’ll give us the cover we need to get in. Once you’re in position, drop the uniforms and mind your watches. We’ve got this perfectly choreographed, so don’t lose track of time.”

  The team leader checked his own watch. They still had over an hour to make the short walk from the CityCenter Apartments on the west side of Mercedes-Benz Stadium to the loading dock. The men would walk in pairs as if they were co-workers reporting for duty at the concert.

  He looked at his hardened operatives, who’d performed so well under pressure for him in all corners of the planet. “We’ve got plenty of time. Any questions?”

  One of the Americans spoke up. “Yeah, chief, I’ve got one. Listen, I’m a country music guy, and I’ve got no use for Beyoncé or her husband, Jay-Z. So don’t get me wrong, I’d take issue with us screwin’ up a Kenny Chesney concert. Why do you think this is the target?”

  The leader walked away and ran his fingers through his hair. He was only able to speculate, but based upon the text message instructions he’d received, and the source, he suspected he knew the reason.

  “Listen, you guys know the drill. It’s like your old Budweiser commercial—why ask why? Our employers pay us well. They give us the latest in high-tech gear. In fact, it’s stuff Her Majesty’s Armed Forces know nothing about.”

  One of the American men began to chuckle. “I bet the chi-comms know all about it. Those hackers have all of our secrets.”

  “Well, maybe so,” the team leader continued. “Regardless, I wasn’t provided a reason, and anything else is speculation on my part.”

  The American shrugged and appeared indifferent. “I’m just curious, that’s all. Regardless of the motivation, it’s gonna fit a pattern of concert attacks in recent years. They’ll be chasing their tails, pointing the fingers of blame.”

  The Australian spoke up. “You’re right on that, mate. They never figured out the reasoning behind the Mandalay Bar shooting in Vegas. The Rascal Flatts concert in Indy was evacuated due to an anonymous security threat.”

  The Brit added, “And in Manchester, the Ariana Grande concert suicide bomber was identified as a bloody Islamist. For our purposes, there will be no discernible reason for the attack, so it can’t be tied to us or our employer.”

  The men s
at in silence for a moment as they contemplated his words. Then one of the Americans asked, “And do you have any idea who our employer is on this job?”

  “I do, and no, I won’t tell you. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  The men shrugged and went about their preparations. They studied a printed map of the arena and confirmed their assignments. After a final sweep of the apartment that had been rented for them a month earlier, they gathered any trace of their personal effects and made their way through the parking lot of the apartment complex, systematically dropping trash bags of clothing, leftover food, and the map of the stadium into the dumpsters. Despite it being the New Year’s holiday, it was a Thursday night, and the waste management trucks would be through to empty the dumpsters around ten o’clock. Any trace evidence of their presence would be incinerated just before midnight, when the fun began.

  Chapter 5

  Undisclosed Residential Location

  The messages were always cryptic. Coded in such a way that certain sets of eyes could understand them all, while others were more compartmentalized based upon their sphere of influence. Everyone had a job to do. Some required physicality and military training. Others simply used the powers afforded them by way of their position. And then some, like the lonely young man sitting in the dimly lit basement of his home and surrounded by computer monitors, used their expertise. The common thread between them all? A sense of duty and the ability to respond on a moment’s notice.

  The message was short, but its words had a profound meaning.

  !!!mG4VJxZNCI 12/31 19:34:28

  As the snow cascaded downward,

  The wild rides halted immediately.

  One instance among many more,

  As we seek Justitia Omnibus.

  Fare thee well.

  MM