Standing in the Storm

by Webb, William Alan

  “So you’re saying these aren’t Muslims?”

  “I cannot say exactly what they are. They are certainly not traditional Sunnis, but whether they are some splinter Shia sect or not, there is not enough evidence to form a conclusion.”

  “Best guess?” Angriff said.

  “They are something brand new, perhaps building on Shia traditions. Someone may have taken advantage of the chaos to carve out their own little kingdom.”

  “All right, let us know when you have details. What’s next?”

  “Results of the long range patrols were mixed. Task Force Anvil searched to the northwest. They found old wreckage of a Chinese Wolf, a light multipurpose vehicle produced by Shaanxi Baoji Special Vehicles Manufacturing, similar to a Humvee. To our knowledge this was strictly a military vehicle. Close examination shows the mount for a 7.62mm machine gun on the roof, although the gun itself was missing. The obvious leap of logic is that the Chinese have, or had, a military presence somewhere in the western United States.”

  “Do we know the operational range of that vehicle?” Angriff asked.

  “With standard fuel capacity, approximately six hundred kilometers.”

  “That’s not enough to make it to the coast, is it?”

  “The distance from the wreck to the nearest coastal city is more than three hundred fifty miles. However, there is no reason it could not have carried spare fuel tanks.”

  “So as far as we know, it could simply be an anomaly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks. But Colonel, you need to prioritize this Wolf matter. If there are Chinese regulars in the neighborhood, we need to know A-sap. That changes everything.”

  “Consider it done, General.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Anvil produced no other actionable intelligence. Next, Task Force Piledriver patrolled to the northeast, in the sector of our initial air strikes. The video evidence they brought back confirmed there had to be at least one survivor. The fresh vehicle tracks were not military, and the tires were badly worn. They were probably full-sized pickup trucks or SUVs. Given the computerized vehicles of the late twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and the likelihood that EMPs were used in the area, it seems likely they were pre-1985 American pickup trucks. We have to assume the survivor, or survivors, were rescued and their superiors know we possess an air assault capability.”

  “Can we be sure of that?” Angriff said.

  “At best we can hope the survivor died before providing intel on our gunships, but it would not be difficult to observe the battlefield and draw the correct conclusions.”

  Angriff nodded, so Kordibowsky continued. “Hammer reconnoitered out to one hundred twenty clicks on bearing one-two-five degrees, south-southeast. Once again they found a number of settlements abandoned or burned, but nothing of significance. The only anomaly was they felt someone might be watching them.

  “Which brings us to Kicker…”

  Chapter 10

  You can use all the quantitative data you can get, but you still have to distrust it and use your own intelligence and judgment.

  Alvin Toffler

  0902 hours, July 2

  “Kicker scouted the area north and west of Phoenix and brought back the Suggs family, their dogs and livestock. More important, they brought back Sergeant Busson, who has proved to be a real coup for intelligence. He has been most cooperative. He believed he was enlisting in the U.S. Army, and so will be covered under the UCMJ.

  “Busson was born some years after the Collapse in the small city of Prescott. He is fuzzy on the details of growing up there, but his life has been dominated by some sort of renegade American officer turned warlord. The political entity controlling the area is called the New Republic of Arizona, which this warlord figure claims is a continuation of the United States and that he is therefore the legitimate government. He maintains a standing military force of considerable size. That is the force Busson joined. This warlord calls himself General Patton. He claims descent from the actual George Patton, and wears five stars on his collar.”

  Angriff sat up and raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s two five-stars. Two more and we can play a rubber of bridge. In all seriousness, what do we know about this guy, Rip?”

  “His origins are obscure, sir, and his order of battle seems rather… haphazard. According to Busson, he has a core of trained soldiers numbering between seven hundred and one thousand. He calls them Freedom’s Guards, or LifeGuards, or just Guards for short. These are his shock troops. Busson claims there are several thousand other soldiers like himself, men who have received some military training but are not really soldiers per se. Busson says they act more as a police force than a military one. They are called Security Police. In my opinion they are like the Sturmabteilung in Nazi Germany with only second-rate combat value.

  “Busson’s duties evolved from policing the Prescott area to scouring the countryside looking for new sources of food, fuel, and workers. The word slave is never used, but that is precisely what the populace of this town appears to be. There’s one particularly chilling detail we discovered, and that’s how fuel is obtained. It’s an open secret that captives are traded to groups with access to gasoline. He also thinks something big is in the works. There has been a major effort to round up new captives. Young women, such as the ones rescued by Kicker, are a prized commodity, and young men are always needed for labor.

  “An analysis of the fuel in Busson’s vehicles shows it to be relatively fresh. We thought it would have an alcohol component, but that proved untrue. This means oil refineries are operating somewhere and this Patton trades with them.”

  “Did Arizona produce oil before the Collapse?” Angriff asked.

  “It did, sir. There were some refineries east of Phoenix and a cluster of wells along the eastern and northeastern border. Production didn’t reach Texas or California numbers, but it wasn’t insignificant.”

  “And you said this Caliphate is in Tuscon?”

  “That’s correct. The Sevens may have seized the wells and refineries and put them back into production. The logical leap, therefore, is that Patton’s trading with the Sevens. But we can’t make that connection with absolute certainty.

  “Returning now to the Republic of Arizona’s organization — after the so-called Guards and the Security Police, there are also thousands of militia. As Busson describes them, they sound like a mob that does what they are told. Assigning them combat value would be overrating them. In a fight, he says they would only have hand weapons, such as shovels or hammers.

  “The Guards have access to some good weaponry. He has seen them practicing with automatic weapons, which is significant. Without either a very large stock of ammunition, or the capability of replacing what they use, profligate live-fire training would use up too much ammunition. RPGs are also on hand in seemingly large numbers, and Busson thinks they may have working armor.”

  “Armor as in tanks?” Fleming asked. “Since we already know they have Bradleys.”

  “We asked Busson that question and it was clear he believes they have tanks. He has not seen them, but he has heard them and — he said this with no prompting from us — he has felt them.”

  “I don’t like that,” Angriff said. “You can feel an Abrams a hundred yards away, which means he’s telling the truth. Anything else, Colonel?”

  “About this warlord, no, sir. There is only one more interesting bit that we found, and this comes from Task Force Hammer. I overlooked it earlier. I believe I mentioned that Hammer found hoofprints. While videoing those, they also videoed the surrounding area.

  “Corporal Sharansky found something she wasn’t expecting during a routine magnification scan. There is a sheer rock face, maybe three hundred feet high, and about halfway up there’s a cave with a ledge. On this ledge stands what looks like a pulley system, using ropes. She also noticed something painted on a rock, near a faint ladder of what might be handholds leading up to the cave. Under extreme magnifica
tion she saw a sequence of symbols. Without investigating in person, there’s no way to know their age. But our best guess is within the past ten years, because the colors are quite bright. If true, if these are actually modern symbols, then they are very important.”

  “Do we know who made them, or what they say?” Angriff said.

  “We think so, General, although we cannot be certain. According to the computers, the symbols read Beware who comes in war, for it is war you shall have. And there is no question the language is Apache.”

  The conference room had cleared, leaving Angriff alone with Fleming and Green Ghost. Schiller brought in coffee. Angriff inhaled the aroma of an unlit cigar and laid it on the table.

  “Snatch-and-grabs in urban areas rank way up there on the scale of high-risk ops,” Angriff said. “But you think the risk is worth it to get the intel we need?”

  “I do, Saint,” Green Ghost said. “They’ll need two SEAL platoons, with a Marine recon company in support. In and out, grab prisoners, no other contact.”

  “None of your people?”

  “They have their own mission here.”

  Angriff started to ask why he’d said they instead of we, but realized Green Ghost intended to lead the mission. He considered forbidding it, but stopped himself. He had agreed to let Green Ghost lead whatever missions he wanted, in return for acting as the brigade’s security officer.

  “Are the SEALs ready?” Angriff said. “They’ve barely had a week’s training together, and most of them weren’t actual SEALs to begin with.”

  “That’s unfair, Nick,” Fleming interjected. “The ones who washed out were all injuries; none of them rang the bell. The skill set is there but bad luck kept them from finishing, and they’re all combat veterans. And you couldn’t get a better mission leader than Green Ghost.”

  Seeing his opening, Angriff couldn’t resist trying to get his way. “That’s another thing. Why is the head of security leading an op?”

  Before Green Ghost could say anything, Fleming surprised them all by answering. “Because we need him to. And since when has anybody stopped Green Ghost from going on a mission? Remember the Congo? And the events leading up to it? The guy is a machine.”

  “You sound like his lawyer. Do you put him up to this, Ghost? Okay, fine, you lead the mission. But unless somebody can tell me why it’s urgent, I want more training time before we go. As for you,” he pointed at Green Ghost, “don’t get killed; otherwise, you’re in trouble. But your sister stays here.”

  “I don’t think he planned to take her,” Fleming said, glancing up at Ghost.

  Ghost nodded. “She has her own mission here.”

  “Good,” Angriff said.

  “She’s your bodyguard.”

  “Like hell she is. I don’t need a bodyguard, and I sure as hell don’t need her. She scares me more than assassins.”

  “I’m the S-5 and this is a security decision. I’ll tell her to be a shadow.”

  Angriff scowled. “Back to the operation. If you think they can do this, Norm — you’re the S-3 — it’s your call. We definitely need reliable intel. And since we know this Patton is based in Prescott, it makes sense to go south first, instead of north into Flagstaff. If we can pull it off.”

  “They can do it, I’m sure. And they need the practice.”

  “Yeah, as long as we don’t lose them. But truthfully, I do feel a lot better about it with Green Ghost involved.”

  “I’m gonna remember you said that,” Ghost said.

  “Several of them asked if those horses we brought in were in shape to be ridden,” Fleming said. “It seems SEALs like riding horses in rough country, and many are trained riders. I had to say no on those poor nags the Marines captured, they’re skin and bone, but it might be time to thaw out some of those in Long Sleep.”

  “We have horses?” Green Ghost said.

  “We do,” Angriff said, and then laughed. “They’re still frozen, but what the hell? Check with… who is in charge of livestock, anyway?”

  “I would assume it’s the Ag people.”

  “Probably. Ask Dr. Goldstone; she’ll know. And before we thaw them out, tell whoever is in charge to make sure we’ve got fodder. We can’t graze them in the desert. I doubt our horses would know what to do with a cactus.”

  Chapter 11

  Nothing you can do, sure as one and one is two

  I'll be creepin' up on you.

  Status Quo, “Creepin’ Up On You”

  0136 hours, July 27

  Richard Parfist prized no object more than his knife. His knuckles tightened on the haft, even though it hindered him as he crept forward in a crouch. Long blond hair fell into his eyes; he flipped it aside with a shake of his head. The dark night helped cover his approach behind the darker figure ahead.

  Parfist moved with the stealth of a mountain lion. Barefoot, he inched toward the man squatting on the edge of the hill overlooking a blacked-out school.

  When he was within arm’s reach, he slid the knife point just under the man’s left ear and hissed, “Make a sound and I’ll cut your throat.” A bird passing overhead would have made more noise.

  The crouching figure did not move. Parfist paused, surprised. The darkness made it difficult to see any details. The guy wore something round on his head. All sorts of things stuck out of his bulky clothes and there was no mistaking the gun, which was identical to those carried by the Guards. But his silence was unnatural… he did not even seem to breathe.

  Something sharp touched Parfist’s own neck under his left ear and he flinched.

  “Go ahead and stick him,” a voice whispered from behind. “He won’t care.”

  As every heartbeat expanded his neck, the point of the blade pushed into his carotid artery. Not enough to pierce it, but enough to render him motionless. His mind raced through possibilities of escape, but there were none.

  Glancing at the darkened school gym at the bottom of the slope, he stifled a cry. “I won’t resist. Just let me see my family again.”

  “Sssh!’ the voice whispered. “Shut up and drop the knife.”

  “But—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  He let the knife fall and a hand picked it up. Shadows moved in his peripheral vision, some coming up the hill, others on either side. They moved out of sight behind him. In the darkness he could barely see more shapes moving near the building below.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” the soft voice said. “We’re going to stand up, and then we’re going back up the hill. You are not going to make a sound or attempt to escape. If you do, I will kill you. If you think you can get away, you’re wrong. Got it?”

  Parfist nodded, but the man wanted to hear him say it. “Yes, I’ve got it,” he said. “But my family is down there.”

  “Shut up.”

  Dark shapes lifted the crouching man, whose limbs stayed rigid. Then he stood and they were off. Once behind the crest of the hill, Parfist was pushed, pulled, and dragged through the open desert for what seemed like hours. In reality it was less than thirty minutes. The rough ground ripped at his bare feet. His soles had toughened after years of walking over rocky terrain, but several times he and his captors ran through cacti and thorns. By the time they paused, his feet were a bloody mess.

  None of it made sense. He’d first assumed they were Patton’s men, but that had to be wrong. His captors spoke and looked like the General’s men, as much as they looked like anything in the dark night. Yet Prescott was well to the southwest now, so why were they taking him northeast? Unless they didn’t work for the General. But if that was true, then who were they? Were they after captives for themselves? If so, why settle for just him?

  Resting in the sand, he huffed for breath. His captors seemed none the worse for their sprint. One of them handed him a cloth and pointed to his feet. Parfist could not see his own feet in the darkness.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  “Where would I get shoes? I’m not one of the Gener
al’s men.” Using the strip of cloth, he dabbed at his torn feet, blotting blood and picking out thorns. With his thickened foot pads there was no real damage, aside from the pain of walking.

  “Here,” said one of his captors, handing him a pair of thick boots. “Try these on.”

  He had only worn shoes a few times in his life, so it took a few minutes to get into them. He had no idea how to tie the laces, so the man who had given him the boots had to do it. Two others trained their rifles on him. With the laces tightened, he stood.

  “My feet slide in them.”

  “Best we can do. Let’s shove off; we’ve still got a long way to go.”

  “Where are we going?” he said.

  One of the men grabbed him by the arm and dragged him. “You’ll find out.”

  “No!” He twisted his arm so fast his captor lost his grip. But he did not run, because they had guns. Plus, blundering about on the night of a dark moon was suicidal. Even forgetting snakes, spiders, and scorpions, the Sonoran Desert’s apex predator was a nocturnal hunter that sometimes hunted in packs — the cougar. So instead of running, he raised his hands. “If you’re the General’s men, then take me back to my family. At least have the decency to let us go into slavery together!”

  For a moment silence fell. Then a strange song broke the silence. Close by, an uncanny, aspirated question, sung with the intensity of a phantom, punctuated Parfist’s plea. Each weird stanza ended time with a rising tone.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Billy owl,” Parfist said, surprise in his voice. “They do it all night.” Why don’t you know that? he wondered.

  Then a new voice in the darkness spoke up, the voice of someone in charge. “Quit dicking around. Carry him if you have to, but we need to getfooh.”