by Hunt, Jack
“How reliable is this intel?” Arianna asked.
Darius appeared at the center, a man that had gone missing for the better part of a week. All eyes were on him, whispers and murmurs spread. Reports that he was dead had circled, so to see him in the flesh was a surprise. “I can confirm it. The first lady is there because we were with her when she was delivered.”
“That’s why you went missing?” She asked.
He nodded. “Myself and one other escaped from Branson but we couldn’t get to her. We did everything we could in Chicago. I was the only one that survived. I’m sorry.” He hung his head low and John placed a hand on his shoulder and Darius melted back into the crowd. These were the setbacks Gunnar had spoken of, the moments in war that didn’t work out the way they should.
John continued to speak. “Those of you here are here because you have shown a willingness to help. The future of this country lies in our hands. In your hands. Teams have been put together, be sure to check which team you will be working with before you leave tonight. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” a voice said from off to Gunnar’s right. Miles and Tex stepped out of the shadows and Gunnar felt a renewed sense of hope.
16
It was a two-stage plan. One team of militia was heading for Chicago to attempt to extract the first lady; Miles, Gunnar, and another crew would head north to the small town of Niota, Illinois. Intel revealed the Amtrak train heading west to Chicago would travel through Kansas City then go northeast passing through numerous towns along the way. One of those towns was Fort Madison, the last stop in Iowa before it would make its trip over the Mississippi River.
To plant C4 on the Fort Madison Swing Bridge which connected Fort Madison with Niota, they had to get a crew close enough. A task only made more difficult by the large number of PLA and Russian troops stationed along that stretch of railway. The ruse was simple. Wear collaborator uniforms and escort Americans north to the railway in an 18-wheeler. It had been done before many times. The PLA was used to seeing these meat wagons. What made this option even more attractive was that with so many attacks on transport units, the PLA wasn’t in the habit of stopping trucks for longer than to collect ID. And they only did it once. It was too dangerous to hold up transportation any longer. Not only had Miles witnessed transport trucks rolling through checkpoints without being stopped but Chief Vargas had confirmed this.
The 18-wheeler was easy to obtain, one of the leftovers from the PLA’s occupation in Camdenton. However, unlike the times when Americans were taken like cattle in the back, those inside had access to firearms.
Over forty were crammed into the back, ready to unleash hell if it came down to it.
Miles rode shotgun upfront with Gunnar, and Snow at the wheel. Tex was tasked with the insertion of militia in the Windy City. He’d given him a hug and a pat on the back before taking off. “Don’t screw it up,” he’d said with a wink before hopping in his bird and taking off into a blue sky.
Later, after they’d been driving for a while, the conversation circled back to his father.
“Run that by me again,” Gunnar asked.
“August is my half-brother. We share the same mother.”
“Right, I got that. So Demar is his father and Grant’s yours?”
The truck rumbled up the highway.
He nodded. “And my father is alive and well in a small town west of Hannibal.”
“That is messed up.”
“You’re telling me. Anyway, that aside, we have bigger fish to fry. Do you think this is going to work?”
“It has to,” Snow said. “If that anti-missile system arrives in Chicago, the chances of our forces being able to put an end to this decrease dramatically.” Miles glanced out the window as forest on either side of the road blurred. It was a good four-hour journey without stopping. They would need to pass through Jefferson City and Hannibal and he knew that they would be stopped in Jefferson.
The closer they got to the city, the more Chinese and Russian flags they saw flapping in the breeze on overpasses that curved over US-54.
“Those IDs, are you sure they will work?” Miles asked again, nerves getting the better of him. Since seeing his father, his mind wasn’t as focused as it had been.
“I guess we’ll find out.” Gunnar looked ahead toward the first checkpoint.
Traffic was thick with Humvees, trucks, and tanks. The truck Snow was driving slowed to a crawl behind a convoy of trucks and horses. The checkpoint was a hive of activity. Some PLA soldiers darted back and forth between vehicles, taking IDs and verifying them, while others used mirrors on the end of long metallic sticks to check beneath vehicles. When all was good, an 18-wheeler that blocked the highway would pull out of the way and folks were allowed through. Most if not all vehicles now using highways and back roads were controlled by the enemy. Militia had opted for horses, using the fields, very rarely venturing onto roads. Highways were heavily monitored and still remained one of the main veins for navigating the country.
It wasn’t long before they were flagged down. Some PLA raised rifles at the cab, while their colleagues went to investigate the load. Meanwhile, they were approached on either side by soldiers. Snow brought his window down.
“ID.”
“Sure.”
He had them ready underneath the sun visor. He flipped it down and handed it over. Miles tried to remain calm but he was anything but.
“You’re heading for?”
“Niota to drop off twenty, the rest go to Chicago.”
It was all in the paperwork, fictitious of course but it met their requirements. The same formal paperwork was required when Americans were transferred from a town to the railway. The soldier nodded, got on his radio, and muttered into it as he walked a short distance away. Miles looked in the side mirror at a couple of soldiers who were peering through the grill of metal at the load. All weapons and ammo were hidden beneath the flooring. This was done just in case soldiers opted to have them get out. Fortunately, they were among the many routine stops they had to do that day. Another number. More faces. A large number of Americans heading north. It was common.
“All right. You are good to go,” the soldier said, handing back the ID.
“I don’t envy your job,” Snow said sarcastically. The Chinese soldier didn’t look impressed. They could tell he was in no mood for conversation. Gunnar gave Snow a nudge and he fired up the truck and rolled on toward the concrete jungle. All the while, Miles kept thinking that at any second they would stop the vehicle.
Fort Madison Swing Bridge rose over the Mississippi River like a steel beast rising out of the ocean. It was an unusually large bridge split into a lower and upper half. The lower was for the railway and the upper had two lanes for vehicle traffic. Miles’ eyes washed over the 525 feet of steel, his mind now on the mission at hand.
As Arbor Street curved around past an old grain plant with peeling white paint, Snow pulled off into the parking lot and eased off the gas. “Let’s do this. We don’t have long.” The sun had melted behind the trees. PLA were stationed near the bridge. In the event the PLA noticed them and wanted to know why they had stopped, they would explain it was to unload twenty and take a pit stop on the long journey to Chicago.
Thirty of the forty would remain inside the truck until the C4 had been planted. Although the PLA could demand to look at the paperwork and count those inside, Miles hadn’t yet seen them pull people out to verify how many there were. In the event they did, Vargas had given them additional bogus paperwork that would make it look as if they were only transporting thirty, not forty.
As ten of the militia exited the back, rifles were collected along with duffle bags containing C4, and scuba gear. This would be the most critical part of the mission. If this failed, there was no plan B. They had to plant the C4 without being seen, then wait until the train was crossing the bridge before they detonated the explosives.
Knowing there was a chance they might be spotted, they hurried and dis
appeared behind the grain station. Miles was among the group while Snow and Gunnar held back.
Changing into wet suits while shrouded by trees at the water’s edge, the group of ten were quiet, thoughtful, mindful of what might happen if this failed. The future of America rested in their hands and each of them felt the weight of responsibility.
One by one they checked each other’s equipment. There could be no room for error. “That water will be murky. Remember, you don’t come up until all of us are below the bridge.” Five of them would swim out while the other five would cover them with sniper fire if their cover was blown.
“Heard a lot of good things about you, kid,” a grizzled guy with an oversized mustache said. His arms were huge and he had military tattoos.
“All lies,” Miles replied as he checked his regulator.
The guy laughed. “The name’s Jensen. Cole Jensen.”
They shook hands before they made their way down to the water’s edge, fins in hand, small waterproof bags carrying C4.
“Where you from?” Miles asked.
“Kansas, born and raised. Tell me, is it true you can dodge bullets?” He chuckled as he stuffed his regulator in his mouth, breathing hard then taking it out. Miles didn’t respond. His eyes had shifted to a convoy of trucks that had made its way onto the top of half of the bridge. They stopped and a stream of soldiers exited and spread out across the bridge. “Looks like they are anticipating trouble.”
“The more the merrier,” Jensen said. “I hope they can swim.” He cackled before entering the water.
Back in the truck, Snow pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He looked over at Gunnar who was busy scanning a map. “You got everything smoothed out between you and Arianna?”
Gunnar looked at him then glanced through the glass into the back where he could see her. “Does it look like it?”
He chuckled. “So that was your idea sticking her back there.”
“Figured it was probably best. We don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“My mother dated many men, none of the relationships worked out. She said she was too strong for them.”
Gunnar laughed but his smile soon faded when he saw headlights heading their way. “Put your game face on.”
Snow looked ahead then got out and banged on the rear. “PLA. Stay cool.” He got down out of the truck and stretched his arms as the glow of lights from two trucks washed over him. One pulled up in front of the 18-wheeler, while the other went behind. They were small vehicles, certainly unable to withstand the force of the beast they were driving. Still, it was more intimidating than anything. There were a total of six soldiers. Four jumped out of the one in the back while the other two remained in their truck. It was typical. If any trouble erupted they would be the first to radio in for backup. “ID and paperwork,” one of the soldiers demanded.
Out came the new bogus paperwork detailing the transportation of thirty Americans, not forty. They’d come to learn that the PLA only communicated with their local platoons. If they had the means of running ID and paperwork through a computer database they might have been able to see the inconsistencies from the last checkpoint to this one.
Play it cool, Gunnar muttered under his breath as he looked at the rearview mirror and could see a couple of the militia guys sneering. There was nothing harder to control than trigger-happy patriots, and they had them in huge numbers.
The soldier shone a flashlight on the paperwork while the others kept their rifles on them. “Open up the back,” he said.
Gunnar’s stomach sank.
“Sure thing.” Snow showed no sign of having a problem. Gunnar was told to get out and was escorted to the rear. By the time he made it back there, Snow was unbolting the doors. After they were swung wide, the PLA ordered everyone out. It was a ballsy move. Once the back was empty, the platoon leader climbed up into the truck and turned his flashlight on. Every step he took rattled the loose steel flooring. All it would take was for him to lift one of the panels and the jig would be up.
Gunnar’s stomach was in his throat. Beads of sweat trickled down his back as he watched the soldier go all the way to the back and shine his light around. On his way back he stopped abruptly and looked down. He stomped his foot and Gunnar knew it was over. He’d figured it out.
Or had he?
He looked up and smiled as he made his way to the rear. “American made. Always makes me laugh. Sturdy.” He hopped down and Gunnar released a relieved laugh.
“Right. Because we usually get everything from China. That’s funny.”
The soldiers laughed and they instructed everyone to get back inside. One of the soldiers personally locked the back of the truck and leered in at those being transported. “Enjoy!” he said before hopping down.
“I gather you will be leaving soon?” the soldier asked.
“Soon. Just a pit stop.”
He tapped the paperwork on Snow’s chest. “Well don’t be long.”
“You got it.”
Both of them stood there unable to believe they had flown under the radar and how close they’d come to being caught. They watched the soldiers get back into their trucks and veer out onto the road heading back to the bridge.
“That was close.”
“Yeah, a little too close for comfort,” Gunnar said as he looked off toward the water, hoping Miles and the others were on the way back.
Beneath the water Miles couldn’t see a damn thing. It was so murky. Each of them had a swim buddy, someone to make sure the other made it. His nerves were on edge wondering if the glow of their lights below the surface could be seen by soldiers standing on the bridge. Jensen and he signaled to each other with hand gestures, slowly navigating their way to the stone foundations below the steel.
At some point along the way, something caught onto Miles’ leg and one moment he was gliding through the water, the next tangled in rope.
Fortunately, Jensen cut him free.
The amount of crap that people had thrown into the river was crazy.
They saw shopping carts, a car, reels of rope, and chemical barrels.
Breaching the surface, Miles took out his regulator and took a deep breath. Jensen appeared like a frogman from the military, his eyes first then the upper half of his body as they lifted their bags out and climbed into a small space between the concrete and the steel. The other guys had gone to the north side and would be doing the same as them.
Above they could hear the rumble of trucks and chatter. Miles eyed Jensen as he attached the dirty-white, putty-like material to the beams and reeled out the wire that would lead away to a remote for detonation.
Few words were exchanged as they operated quickly to rig up the bridge in as many areas as required to bring it down. The whole mission relied on timing. A minute too soon, a minute too late and the PLA could find themselves with a defunct bridge but an anti-missile system still intact.
Once it was completed, they swam out to a safe distance on the Illinois side, while the others were on the Iowa side. Now it was a matter of waiting, waiting for the rumble of the train, waiting for a cargo of weapons aimed at destroying America.
17
Tall reeds blew hard in the wind along the banks of the Mississippi River.
On the Illinois side, Miles and Jensen crouched among trees near County Road 100, on a small peninsula projecting out into the water. The sun had all but set and now the bridge was masked in darkness. Pockets of yellow light dotted along the upper half of the bridge provided light to the PLA but also made it easier to see them.
“Not long now,” Jensen said, pressing buttons on the side of his wristwatch to illuminate the hands. “I can’t wait to see the look on those bastards’ faces when this baby erupts.”
On the far side, they could see the others biding their time. Nothing more than small black mounds partially hidden by brush. Nervous anticipation roiled in Miles’ stomach as he turned the NV goggles and scanned the bridge. In the distance, he saw a helicopter land. Meanwhil
e, Snow came over the radio telling them to hurry it up as the PLA had already swung by twice and he was worried they were getting suspicious.
“Our work is done. We can’t make the train go any faster. It’s running behind schedule.” Miles heard Snow groan. While they had been given an estimated time of when the train would pass over the bridge, it was just that, an estimated time. If there was any delay, it could mean leaving Miles and his squad behind. What they couldn’t do was leave without blowing the bridge. Sure, they could hit it now but the train would continue using an alternate route. No, they needed to hit the bridge and the train and take both out in one fell swoop.
“After all this is over, and the country is back on its feet. What are your plans, Miles?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he replied while squinting at the bridge.
“I’m opening a bar.”
“Yeah? What will you call it?”
“PLA Bar and Grill.”
Miles lowered the NV binos and shot him a sideways glance.
He chuckled and nudged him. “I’ll have photos on the wall of the PLA’s destruction. I’ll name the food on the menu after different generals, the commander. Would you like some collaborator fries with that?” He laughed. “Come on, it would be a hit.”
Miles shook his head.
“I’m yanking your chain but I do want to start a bar. I just can’t come up with a name.”
“The Patriots Bar and Grill,” Miles tossed out.
Jensen mused. “You know what, that sounds pretty good.” He lifted a hand, waving it in front of him as he envisioned his future. “I see it now. American flags lining the walls. Busty waitresses serving great American food with an AR-15 strapped to their back. And everyone gets a bullet with our address stamped on the bottom.”