Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  “Okay, Clark. We’ve spent enough time together since the Reset; you know what my wishes are. And I’ll support whatever you two come up with,” Phil concluded.

  To himself: I just wish Anna was here to talk through all this – she could make me feel more confident this is the right move.

  Phil’s wife decided to stay behind on this trip, important as it was. Tending to her duties as Chief Medical Officer included organizing the School Shelters still housing a large portion of Okaw Valley’s residents. Immediate needs took priority over pomp and circumstance. I wonder how she’ll feel about starting her work all over again in so many new places. Already it feels like the Hamilton family is never together.

  “One thing to think about, we’ve got extra Quarters that we brought along. Why not hand out a bag of Quarters to each community tonight? They can exchange them for bushels of soybeans to take home,” Phil added. “Tell them all we need more fire suits, helmets, Kevlar, knee pads, etc. Any protective gear for the Turtle crews. I bet there’s a bunch of old race shops in their areas where they can find equipment like that. Tell them we’ll trade generously for those.”

  “Thinking like a benevolent sovereign, Founder Hamilton,” Olsen said. The mocking British accent didn’t fit the hulking Midwestern sheriff at all, which made it even funnier.

  “Whatever…just wait until you find out the special office I’m creating for you. You’ll be cussing yourself before this is all over!” Phil said, pointing a finger at Olsen.

  “Julia, I apologize I have to leave you with this man the rest of the day. By the end of it, he’ll have me in a purple robe and crown!” Phil turned and walked away quickly before anyone could stop him. He shouted over his shoulder, “Now you two get workin’, I’m going to play in the dirt!”

  Old Main

  Fireworks…pop, pop, pop… gunfire… A loud rat–tat–tat sound that shook Okaw Valley’s Founder away from his to-do list, back into reality. The same angry sound he heard in the first days after the Reset. A whole lifetime ago, or so it seemed. Despite the time that had passed between then and now, certain sounds stick with a person forever.

  Phil looked around, trying to determine the origin of the noise. Two Snapping Turtles sat a short distance away, parallel to a pair of 4 wheel drive trucks with bright red hawks of Old Main College painted on the doors and hood.

  He kind of liked the symbol, with wings outstretched and talons forward. Like something an animal would see just before the raptor struck. Out of character for his friends at Old Main; they’d resisted the Okaw’s decision to spend resources on weapons when the threat of starvation was an everyday specter.

  But the red hawk served as mascot for their sports teams before the Reset. Julia Ruff needed something Old Main survivors could rally around, and the symbol was comfortable and plentiful on campus.

  Family and community, “tribalism,” one of the professors at the college had called it, was quickly replacing any concept of national unity. Especially since the flag of their homeland was now carried by a feared enemy.

  The glaring red would have to be toned down in the combat situations to come. But the hawk itself would stay, even after the Okaw and Old Main merged. We have to prove this is an alliance of equals, not a takeover.

  Phil still couldn’t see where the gunfire came from, so he keyed the mic of his handheld radio. Sporting goods stores proved a great source for peripheral supplies like this. All guns and food were gone, along with a lot of the clothing and high-priced sneakers. Looters overlooked things like tents, canoes and especially radios. Most electronic devices were useless due to the Solar Storms, but the Wizards developed ways to make the little hand-held versions work. They looked odd, with wires crisscrossing the plastic casings shielding internal circuits. Regardless of appearance, the configuration seemed to keep the Solar Storms from frying the radios when used, most of the time.

  Gunfire sounded again. Have to find out who’s breaking protocol…

  “Hey Kevin, who’s firing live ammo right now? I told everyone we’re practicing maneuvers, not target practice.” Deputy Kevin Richardson was one of the Okaw Valley SDC’s most valued troops, and a solid man. He wouldn’t defy orders without a very good reason.

  Slight static, and then a brief reply: “We’re not firing anything right now, Phil. But I heard it too. I think it came from west of here just past that tree line. Want us to scout it out?”

  Before Phil could answer, a jeep came ripping out of the tree line directly towards Richardson’s position. He could see Richardson shouting orders to both groups of allied troops. Too far away to actually hear the words being said, Phil knew precisely how the conversation would go. No time for patient explanations now, everyone would follow Richardson’s orders immediately or be left behind.

  Training carried SDC men into their Turtles with a speed that pleased their Founder. Old Main troops weren’t as well trained - really just militia showing the most promise - or as quick. In a flurry of metal and flame, three men wearing the hawk insignia paid the ultimate price for thinking instead of acting. Hardened as he had become, Phil found himself nearly retching as the bodies disappeared into the corn stalks surrounding their vehicles.

  The attacking jeep made an almost 90-degree turn to veer away from the Turtles and circle back to the trees. The jeep was clearly a scout vehicle, tasked to search out enemy lines, raise some havoc, and gather intelligence. The jeep’s driver leaned over the steering wheel, trying to squeeze a little more speed out of the nearly hundred-year-old war machine. His navigator was holding on for dear life, as was the gunner manning the weapon mounted on a platform directly behind the front two seats.

  He felt the sting of loss, despite knowing the enemy gunner had instantly forged a pact that would become an inseparable bond. Okaw and Old Main, two tribes that just a short time ago were Americans now became part of something much more real. More visceral. A battle cry that would be felt throughout the territory and beyond. Our first Martyrs. Their Founder would see to that.

  Before he could give the order to destroy the jeep, his armored Turtles both belched fire from their weapons. The entire scout jeep and its inhabitants nearly vaporized in a smoky torrent of lead. Six men total, now gone from the face of the earth before I uttered a word. A new world now, one he knew would get a lot worse very soon.

  Now the words came quickly and forcibly. “Kevin, get your tail up here and form on me. Tell the Red Hawks to take our left flank, angled back towards the town. If anything wants to get to Old Main, they’ll have to deal with this hill.”

  The swale he referred to wasn’t much of a hill; just the highest ground between whoever was out there and the town behind him. He could see the city center just a few miles in the distance. Another reason for no live fire today; many of their heavy weapons could easily travel that distance. Martin Fredericks once reminded him a stray bullet could kill a civilian just as easily as an aimed one. But Hamilton wanted the townspeople to see what was going on during the training exercises, to witness their warriors cooperating with his, so these open corn fields made the perfect spot for today’s drill.

  But this was no drill.

  He reached down and grabbed a different radio. “Commander Fredericks, we’ve got trouble up here. I want you to get all your men together and rally just outside of town behind us. Get the Mark 3s started up, we’re going to need them right now. If anything breaks through our line, it’s yours, okay? No time to explain, just follow the plan.”

  More static and then a simple, “Roger that.”

  With Fredericks squared away, Hamilton picked up a third radio, one that patched him directly to the leader of Old Main College.

  “Julia, we have a problem. Are you there?”

  “Yes, Phil, what is it?” A stern but pleasant voice cut through the noise.

  “We’ve just been hit by a recon party. Three of your men are down. We took out the scouts, but I think we can assume there is something headed our way we won’t lik
e. I have my warriors on the hill just east of town where we were holding the unit drill. Your remaining troops are with me to guard the flank. Commander Fredericks has the rest of my troopers between me and you. But I suggest you mobilize everything you have. Just a gut feeling.”

  “Okay, Phil, I understand. I’ve trusted your intuition this far and it’s worked out for us.”

  “I’ll keep you posted on what I’m seeing out here. And Julia…” Phil paused for a moment.

  “Yes, Phil?”

  “Whatever happens, make our merger work.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “I can’t give a President an order, Julia, I’m just a simple farmer. But it is a request from a friend.”

  “Phil, I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but now I’m worried. You’ve been through how many bad situations before? This is the first time I’ve heard concern in your voice like this.”

  “I don’t know, Julia. The recent New America raids in the outer settlements have me concerned. I know those Grays are bad news and we’ll have to deal with them at some point. Just didn’t want it so soon.”

  “We’re getting there. And closer to ready every day that goes by. You always tell me to trust the plan. Now I’m telling you; Phil, trust the plan.”

  Julia Ruff was one of a handful of people who could successfully give Hamilton a pep talk, and he needed one now. Maybe it was watching six souls cut down for something he still didn’t quite understand. Or maybe it was a sixth sense he developed that told him trouble was coming. Either way, he had to face the situation at hand.

  “You’re right, Julia. Thanks for the speech. You should run for President someday.”

  “I would, but I was already drafted, remember?”

  Silence hung over the static.

  “Phil, you still there?” Julia asked.

  “I am. I’ll keep things solid out here, Julia. You get your people ready to fight. Out.”

  No more words, now the action plan. The same plan honed over dozens, maybe hundreds of skirmishes and firefights during salvage missions to the ghostly cities. There were plenty of people left in those hellholes, but none of them seemed interested in honest trade. Okaw Valley crews salvaged what they needed where they could find it. Even took it by force if groups didn’t want to let it go. That was a fact he wasn’t proud of. But his goal was to save as many of his people as possible, the best he knew how; those raids were training for the real combat to come. He would have to trust that God would understand when he met Him face to face.

  Dust rose now from just over the next rise. How did I not spot that before? He suddenly regretted not having a couple of his Raptors up in the air. The converted crop dusters were supposed to do a flyover during the town’s Alliance Day parade tomorrow. Aviation fuel was scarce, though, and the Wizards had yet to perfect a blend of soy diesel replicating the high octane juice needed for flight. Hamilton lamented the decision to save the fuel allotment for the brief appearance above their new allies. Theatrics should have taken a back seat to security. Still learning all this strategic military leader stuff.

  “Doug are we loaded and ready?” Phil called up to his gunner. Whenever Phil could get out on a mission with his vehicle, he would ride navigator. Doug Hanks, one of the original Ten Vets, served as gunner and vehicle commander in Phil’s frequent absence. Johnny Jackson drove for them as usual, a man who understood the concept of driving three steps ahead. That’s how you had to drive the land yacht known as a Turtle: always planning ahead. The newer version was a much more stable platform. But Phil insisted on hanging on to this original beast for now, like a ship’s captain who refuses to acknowledge obsolescence.

  The first batch of the new Mark 3 tanks was single man crew, which Phil considered a shame. There was a real brotherhood that came from serving together in these tin cans.

  “Ready, boss man,” Doug replied. Phil didn’t really have to ask, he just liked going through the checklist more for himself than his crew.

  “Johnny, we’re not going to be able to wait for reinforcements to arrive before engaging these guys,” Phil sighed to his driver. “We’re going to have to bloody their noses to slow them down a little.”

  Johnny paused, “How do you even know what’s out there, boss? Might just be a small raiding party that didn’t know what they were getting into.”

  “Look at the dust, man. Besides, how many ditchmen do you know that scout ahead in regular army equipment? No, it’s the Grays. I know it is. They probably figured they could catch the Alliance leadership here and take us out. It’s the smart move. The Grays are asses, but they’re smart asses,” Phil quipped.

  Chuckles briefly broke the tension in the vehicle. Jokes aside, the Founder’s men swore he was calmer amid flying bullets then in a civic meeting. Hamilton morphed from small-time farmer into the unquestioned leader of an alliance of free territories over a remarkably short space of time.

  “Alright boss man, whatcha got in mind this time?” Johnny asked, expecting the unexpected.

  “This time,” Phil smiled, “we go straight at them.”

  Johnny revved the diesel V–10 engine, feeling the three-ton, four-wheel drive monster lurch towards whatever was over that horizon. The last time they met the Grays in a skirmish they fought to a draw. Phil knew they had trucks mounted with .50 caliber guns, and that made up the bulk of their mobile force. That was a plenty effective weapon, and it could penetrate Turtle armor with a straight hit. Only the farm-critical Mark 2s and new Mark 3s got produced now in the former Caterpillar Tractor factories. But the old Snapping Turtles were still a critical part of the Allied fighting force. Since all their combat plans called for them to continue to be integrated as a fast strike force, upgrades were continuously produced. Confident in the new plate armor the Wizards installed last month, Hamilton intended to put the toughest part of the shell towards the Gray forces.

  The new armor wouldn’t hold up in a slugfest with the Grays, so he intended to slice right through them, guns blazing, and then circle back trying to eliminate the command element of the attacking force. Refugees defecting from New America informed SDC leaders that Gray commanders led their forces from the back. Not out of cowardice, but because their communications were direct line sets. There was no way of surveying the whole battle field from the front or middle. A small command force observed the operation, ready to deploy and exploit any break in enemy lines.

  Finally, the Gray line came into view. Uh–oh, Phil thought, this really isn’t a raiding party. Humvees in a wedge formation, large transport trucks behind…

  What is that? Is that a tank? Of course it was, he recognized the outline immediately, but just couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

  Well, this is beginning to look a lot like the Charge of the Light Brigade. Can’t turn back now, we’d be grinder meat.

  “Punch it, Johnny! We gotta get by that tank and behind to the Humvee with the big whip antenna!” Phil shouted over the engines.

  “Doug, lock onto that command truck and waste it!” he shouted up to his gunner.

  Through the observation glass built into the nose of the Turtle, he saw the Gray commander’s Humvee lurch to a halt with smoke pouring out of the engine compartment. Doug was an experienced gunner, used to fighting through ambushes, and knew exactly what to do. Pieces of metal and sparks didn’t stop flying until the last man stumbled out of the burning vehicle.

  “Good shooting, now fire on anything that’s close!”

  Johnny kept the engine floored until they circled around the burning hulk of their original target. As they made the turn, Phil noticed that Doug wasn’t firing anymore. “Is it a jam, Doug?” he yelled over his shoulder, with one eye on a tree line he was thinking of having Johnny drive towards. “Doug?”

  Nothing. Just silence came from the gunner’s station.

  “Johnny, something’s wrong. Get us to that tree line ASAP so I can get a handle on things.”

  As the Turtle lurched forwa
rd again, the interior exploded with flying pieces…the New American tank’s machine guns found their range. Johnny slumped over, still as though fast asleep. Shrapnel from the damaged interior sliced wounds all over Hamilton’s body. Wetness crept into the old racing fire suit he used as fire protection.

  Lots of pain, probably bad, but I can still function.

  Quickly as his numbed senses would allow, he unbuckled Johnny from the driver’s safety harness and let his friend fall to the floor of the vehicle. Sorry, old pal, I hate that it ends this way for us. He didn’t even bother to check on Doug; he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what happened to his friend half-exposed to flying metal.

  He settled himself into the driver’s seat as bullets once again struck the metal plating surrounding him. No time for the harness. His thinking was a little cloudier now. There was no fear, just rage at what happened to his friends and what was heading for his men and his son down in the town below.

  No question in his mind what was next. Job to do. Can’t let those Gray snakes get my guys. Or my little guy either. Phil smiled briefly. Alex, his little guy, was six foot three and two hundred pounds. Already battle-hardened and ready to take his place in the SDC. Still my little man. That made the next move easier to accept.

  Last chance, tank coming. If that thing gets loose among our troops, even the Mark 3s won’t stop it. Only solution, try to damage it. Take out the treads at least. Make it a sitting duck until the Wizards can get a heavier weapon up here to finish it off. How? Don’t have anything heavy enough to do that…

  …Wait, if I ram it from the side that should damage the track wheels enough. Maybe even do some damage inside. Okay, I can do that. Gonna be close, and hurt a bunch. But no choice now. Rev the engine, slam into gear. Try to get the angle on it so it can’t swing that big gun around. Or the machine guns either.