by G. R. Carter
Tripp was so enthralled with the view that neither he nor the mechanic thought to run across the field and help. But once the gondola suspended below the metal skin of the airship reached ground level, he began moving towards it to greet the occupants. The distance was further than he thought, and halfway across the rough ground he was wishing for his own vehicle left behind with the frustrated mechanic. Tripp knew the young man wanted to get a look at the unique vessel, but there was no time to waste.
Surprise overtook Tripp once more as his old friend and comrade Martin Fredericks stepped out of the passenger compartment. Fredericks’ long legs stumbled a bit on the last step out; a life on the ground hadn’t prepared him for a journey across the plains of the heartland buffeted by sudden gusts.
“Just when I think this crazy world can’t shock me anymore…”
Tripp’s hand reflexively reached for his sidearm as soon as he saw that the three men and one woman following behind Fredericks wore gray battle fatigues.
“Wait!” Fredericks shouted, holding up both hands to Tripp. “Hank, they’re with me…with us now!”
Tripp’s hand stayed on top of the holster, eyes glued on men who were trying to kill him just weeks ago. “Commander Fredericks, I’m going to need an explanation. Now, please!” The tone took Fredericks a bit by surprise. He had never heard Hank raise his voice much, especially to someone higher in the chain of command.
“Hank, I should have sent a message and warned you. I’ve had some time to get used to it, and I forgot you hadn’t. I’m sorry. And just so you know, these folks were at the hospital in Lincoln City. They were wounded on America’s northern front, fighting against the Caliphate. There’s no Red Hawk blood on their hands,” Fredericks said, trying to calm his old friend.
“Maybe, but there’s still gray on their backs. Shiloh and all the other frontier farms have been living in fear of that uniform since we first got here. I’d suggest they think about a change of clothes if they plan to be on this soil and not under it,” Tripp snarled.
“Okay, okay, Hank. Don’t worry, they won’t be staying long. Let me give you details of what we’re planning.”
*****
“My name’s Margaret Kemble, but you can call me Maggie,” the woman told Tripp. “My husband was Walsh’s second-in-command when the Reset first happened. But he was killed in a shootout with the city police force when Walsh seized control.”
“I remember you, Maggie. I had just arrived on base when it happened. So I knew you, but I don’t expect you to remember me,” Tripp replied.
“So many faces have come and gone in the last seven years. Seems like yesterday and a lifetime all at once,” the woman sighed. She sat with a weary confidence, staring at the coffee cup she held. “I’m glad for the hot meal. Thank you, it’s been a while.”
“War footing is always most difficult on civilians,” Tripp conceded.
Kemble looked at the other gray-clad men sitting at the table. Then she looked at Martin Fredericks, who merely grinned and nodded.
“What’s so funny?” Tripp demanded. They sat in the corner of his Fortress Farm’s Great Hall, alone except for a couple of cook staff shuttling food and drink back and forth. His tone echoed over the sounds of the kitchen preparing for the evening meal.
“Nothing, Mr. Tripp, I just didn’t realize you weren’t aware of our situation. Everyone in New America has been on a war footing since day one after the Reset. There’s never been a day without hardship. Warm food was a rare pleasure, same with any kind of light and heat. Everything was needed for the war effort, wherever that war happened to be,” Kemble said. “Always some war, somewhere.”
“You know, it’s funny, you don’t think about those kinds of things when you’re out in the field,” said Joe Warren, one of the New America officers to recently swear allegiance to the Red Hawk Republic. He in fact had been a covert source of information for Martin Frederick’s intelligence network before being shipped to the northern front to fight against the Northern Caliphate. “You just get so focused on beating the Jijis you don’t think about what’s going on at home. I found out firsthand when I got wounded and shipped back to Lincoln City for rehab.”
“That’s how you two ended up there also?” Tripp asked, looking at the other two men in gray fatigues.
Each nodded, and then the older of the two spoke. “I’m Henry Dodge, originally from a little town near what used to be Silver Springs state park. Just a few miles from the Fox River,” the slightly greying man said, expecting Tripp to recognize the landmarks. “This is my nephew, Zach Stevens. We got our families out south of the Illinois River before the Aurorans captured us. We ended up in a refugee camp just outside Ottawa when we got ‘recruited’ by New America.” The man spit more than said the last little bit of the account. Clearly there had been little choice.
“We’s survive a couple of years after the Reset by banding together with a bunch of kin living in the area. But no way we hold off the Jijis. They like some hoppers, just keep spreading and chewing up everything,” the nephew continued. Tripp noticed the accent in the younger man’s voice but couldn’t place the origin. “Not sure what we’s thought we’s was running to, but I know the folks was hoping the Stars and Stripes still meant something.”
“I was no fan of Colonel Walsh, but at least he was better than the Aurorans,” Warren argued. He seemed uncomfortable defending the New American dictator.
“Well, we’s didn’t have much a choice either way, ya know. So as our families could stay behind American lines, we’s had to fight the Jijis,” Stevens concluded.
“There’s a choice now,” Fredericks interjected. “Hank, we’re going to use those skyships to insert behind Gray lines and capture or kill Walsh.”
Tripp blinked at the sudden statement. He was still trying to figure out the people sitting here in his hall, and now Fredericks dropped another huge surprise on him. “How?” was all he could utter.
“Tomorrow, there will be another two skyships showing up with replacement troops for your farm. They’re all former Grays that have sworn allegiance to the Republic. We’re going to take them and just drop right on top of Walsh tomorrow night,” Fredericks said.
“That’s crazy. There will be what, maybe twenty of you? How are you going to take on the Legions with twenty people?” Tripp asked.
“There won’t be any Legions there,” Warren told him. “Every available Legionnaire and Provisional is out in the field. Walsh is trying to defend three fronts at once now. He’s got some forces pointed towards the Republic and some Provisionals are still defending the Illinois River, but most are on a line from Checkpoint Lafayette to Checkpoint Fort Wayne,” he said, using New American terminology for the bases spread out in Reconstructed territory. “They're trying to hold off a combined force of Caliphate and Aurorans.”
“So while he’s distracted, you’re just going to walk right in and snatch him?”
“Or kill him. Either way the plan works,” Fredericks replied calmly.
“So then the whole thing will collapse,” Tripp said. “All those people will fall to the Caliphate. That’s organized chaos descending to total chaos. I’m not sure I see the benefit.”
“There won’t be chaos,” Margaret Kemble broke in. “Martin has asked me to take charge of New America, uh I mean America, once Walsh is gone.”
Tripp studied the woman’s face for a moment, looking for an expression that told him what she really thought. Confidence swirled with exhaustion in her eyes. Then Tripp looked at the other American soldiers sitting with them. In turn, each nodded their head in agreement.
“Let me guess, everyone knows who you are. And you’ll provide the voice of reason, right? Prove to the Grays that it’s okay to point their guns at the bad guys instead of the Red Hawks,” Tripp said.
“It’s the truth, Mr. Tripp,” Maggie said. “I really believe it. I’ve been running Lincoln City, trying to keep the civilians fed and the wounded alive for seven years now.
I always knew that Hamilton and the Red Hawks weren’t bad people. And when Commander Fredericks appeared a few weeks ago with a choice between more death and the chance for peace, the right path had never been clearer.”
“And we’s here to help her. This lady helped me and Uncle get back on our feet. She one sharp knife, for sure,” Stevens said to Tripp. “Figure there’s lots of provisional troops there in the Indiana territory along with the Legions, yah? So me and Uncle will show them that the Provisionals over here are with the Hawks, too.”
“Somehow this whole scheme doesn’t sound any crazier than any other you’ve come up with, Freddy,” Tripp said to Fredericks. “And if it means you kill Walsh without any more of my people getting hurt, I’m all for you. How can I help?”
*****
After making arrangements for the discreet accommodations of his guests, Tripp returned to his office with two cigars and a bottle of blackberry brandy. Fredericks sat in a chair next to the stone hearth, warming his feet that seemed to be perpetually cold from freezing nights spent on campaign.
“Get them all hidden away?” Fredericks asked without looking up from the fire. “Sorry again for not telling you ahead of time. Sweet Lord, it’s always cold here you know it?”
“Better than the 120 degrees and sand flies in the ‘Box,” Tripp countered.
Fredericks sat silently, working to suppress the desert images trying to force themselves into his normally disciplined mind.
“So we need to talk about what happened during the New America invasion,” Fredericks said finally.
“My people were dying, Freddy. What would you have had me do?”
“Hank, I don’t blame you for asking for help. I would have done the same thing. The problem was Eric Olsen saying yes to your request. He had direct orders to trap Walsh and he let him slip right through our hands.”
“So I was worth sacrificing to get Walsh, huh?”
“Come on, Hank. You and I have been soldiers all our lives. We know the rules.”
“Freddy, I use to think it was worth forfeiting the lives of a hundred soldiers to save one civilian. That was my code.”
“I’m assuming by that statement that you don’t feel that way anymore?”
“I’ll be 100% honest with you. Depends on the civilian. I lost a lot of very good men and women defending this farm and the farms right south of us. That was worth the deal. But now I get the sense that we’re going to be fighting up north and east for Grays that just a little while ago considered me a terrorist,” Tripp said.
Fredericks didn’t answer right away. He and the Hamiltons knew this question would come up in every Fortress Farm of the Republic. Rebekah Hamilton first brought up the possibility. The two discussed for hours what the right answer would be when the time came. Unfortunately there was no good answer readily at hand. Land Lords were going to be asked to support another campaign, this time with no immediate threat hanging over their head.
Before Fredericks could begin, Tripp cut him off. “Don’t give me the ‘If we don’t fight them there we’ll have to fight them here’ crap, okay? I was there for that recruiting speech. Our relatives fell for it, so did we. All those years in the ‘Box and what did the United States get for it?”
“I wasn’t going to blow that smoke at you, Hank. I was just thinking that it would be nice to have a buffer zone between these Aurorans and Shiloh. If we let New America completely collapse, they could be here in a week,” Fredericks simply said. He left the implications of that to Tripp’s imagination.
“Or they could never make it. Maybe their beef was with Walsh and all they wanted was to be left alone. We won’t invade them, why would we assume they’ll invade us?”
“Every Gray rank-and-file says the same thing. They spoke with the refugees from the Great Lakes. In fact, there’s several Provisionals who actually were from Great Lakes. These Jihadists believe that they’re Heaven’s vengeance come to an unholy world. And now they believe this guy from Aurora is the Twelfth Imam. Kind of like a Jihadist Jesus without all the peace and love,” Fredericks said.
Tripp thought for a moment. “I just want to live in peace and farm. Who would have known that twenty years ago? I could have done it then. Had a few years of peace at least. Now I leave one hellhole overseas and come back to what could turn into another one.”
“But without the sand flies,” Fredericks said with a smile.
Tripp snorted, incredulous to his old comrade’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Have you seen the mosquitos and horseflies around here? I think they might be worse!”
Both men sat in the quiet for moment. Seldom did either get to be in the company of a peer.
“I won’t support an invasion, north or east. But I will agree to help build some kind of defensive line. I trust you and Alex enough for that,” Tripp said.
“That’s all Alex is asking. Believe it or not, he said the same thing you did.”
“About what?” Tripp asked.
“He said he just wanted to farm and be left alone,” Fredericks replied.
Tripp laughed again, as though the very notion struck him as absurd. “He’s got a long way to go before he can retire. God help us if that guy ever leaves. Even if Rebekah is the brains of the outfit, he still has to be the face. Speaking of, how is he?”
“In a lot of pain. Sheriff Olsen’s death really got to him, and the escape of Walsh made it worse…if that’s possible. The Olsens were nearly as close to Alex and Sam as they were to each other. Now that will never be the same. Eric blames Alex for his dad’s death, and Alex blames Eric for making Clark’s death meaningless,” Fredericks told him.
“Well, they’ll get over it. I was sure impressed with Eric’s fighting ability…a little green but plenty brave. Got that swagger guys like to follow into battle. Either way, they’re going to have to work together if either of them wants to be able to live as long as we have,” Tripp said taking a sip of the warm brandy.
“Now tell me again how this Walsh thing is going to work. I haven’t heard of anything like this since Uncle Edgar was on the crew that took down Bin Laden. And make sure you tell me everything, cause I’m going with you,” Tripp said with a smile.
New America
New America Headquarters
Former Boone County Courthouse, Lebanon, Indiana
Martin Fredericks felt himself descend through the moonless pitch black night towards the glowing flare below. The nylon safety harness tugged at his shoulders and groin and his right hand firmly grasped the quick-release cord. His left hand held on to the crew line connected to the safety harness; he knew that if the harness failed he wouldn’t be able to hold on with just one hand but it made him feel better. Five men were already on the rooftop below, securing the area as one more landed every fifteen seconds. He could just barely hear the skyship engines above him adjust RPM against the breeze, trying to keep the line and the men on it positioned directly over the roof of what was once the Boone County Courthouse.
There was just the faintest light coming from the windowed octagonal dome topped with a clock tower 120 feet up from ground level. The courthouse building made a natural headquarters, constructed out of solid granite and limestone nearly 150 years before by craftsman who lived and died by the quality of their work. This was just the kind of place that all leaders of the new world tried to build around. Something that could keep the occupants safe from attack.
What dictators like Colonel Darrian Walsh lacked was imagination. He assumed any threats would be straight at him, like a hammer bashing through a wall. But when ARK quietly slid undetected behind Red Hawk lines for a friendly visit, Alex Hamilton immediately recognized the potential of a nearly silent craft creating havoc behind enemy lines. Fredericks and his team of American converts were now just moments away from conducting the ultimate exercise in havoc.
His boots finally touched down on the solid roof below, and with a large exhale he realized he’d been holding his breath almost the entire time of h
is descent. Strong hands steadied him as he pulled the release line and then unbuckled his silenced assault rifle from the harness. Weapons like his were extremely rare – replacement parts were difficult to machine with current tools – and pointed to how important his mission was.
Wordlessly, the group of six moved to the windows of the dome. Another group of six, led by Hank Tripp, was already hidden on the other side of the fifty-foot wide structure. He checked the black greased faces of his section, each with a nervous but determined look. With luck, they should be able to get into the top-floor walkway, search the offices where Walsh was likely at, secure him and then put the rest of their plan into motion.
Margaret Kemble, now standing fourth in line in front of him, was the next part of the plan. Once Walsh was secured, or disposed of, Maggie would declare herself the temporary leader of New America. At that point everyone hoped that an end of hostilities between the Grays and the Red Hawks would follow. But first, they had to get Walsh.
Fredericks watched their lifeline begin to rise as the skyship above gained altitude. Both it and its sister ship would linger at two thousand feet, waiting for an emergency flare. It was nice to have a backup plan, but no one really knew how an extraction would work getting back onto a skyship if anything went wrong. The unspoken reality was this was a one-shot plan.
Once the line was clear, Fredericks gave the go-ahead and Zach Stevenson began to cut holes in the window with a diamond-tip glass cutter. An identical tool was used by Tripp’s group on the other side. According to the timeline they should have made their first cut already, waiting for a sign from Frederick’s to continue. After the first hole was complete, Stevenson looked inside and confirmed a glow stick being waved back and forth from across the dim open space.
Both sides completed their window cuts, and silently each team stepped onto the marble walkways surrounding the rotunda. One by one, they carefully opened doors, moved inside and searched what had once been the offices for county clerks and attorneys. Each room was empty, causing doubt to creep into Frederick’s mind. Maybe Walsh is out with the men, he thought to himself, trying not to get distracted. The old Walsh would have been in a field tent next to the camp stove. But Joe Warren informed him that Walsh had grown much more distant since being wounded in battle. The pain seemed to cloud his judgment, and Warren believed that during Walsh's trips to negotiate with GangStar leaders he had gotten hooked on Syn. If so, this was the perfect place for him to be. Quiet, dark and reasonably safe while he recuperated.