First, he printed and spun copies of the military rifles that were copies of the standard M-4 .223 Carbine. They began to self- destruct after about twenty rounds. He modified the design to make it more like the stamped metal and gas piston system AR-18. He tweaked the printer medium a bit and began to obtain some examples that lasted one hundred rounds. Those may be of use for throwaway training or guerilla weapons, but not for an organized military force.
The magazines he was producing using polymers and plastics were working just fine, as good as any aluminum pre-strike examples. He even went so far as to produce 45, 75 and 100 round drum magazines for the .223 and .308 rifles he was producing from his supply of conventional metal. But this was of limited use if he had an inadequate supply of rifles.
Finally, two weeks ago, Pappy had assembled all the parts for the rifle on his desk. He called it an AR-18DP, for 3D Printer. He had tweaked and modified the parts using the available 3D media material, now turning into a hybrid weapon. Pappy found that if he used a metal-based media material for the bolt, chamber, and first two inches of the barrel, those parts would last at least a couple of thousand rounds before showing any real wear and tear. He had gotten one rifle through three thousand rounds before the bolt face and chamber began to show pressure and stress cracks. The weapon still functioned but jammed a lot. He stopped the test before he had a catastrophic failure. A tough combination of ceramics, polymers and Tschaaa developed crustacean based mantle material was used for the rest of the rifle, including a butt stock sufficiently strong to be used for a butt smash to any enemy. Further testing showed he could replace the barrel and bolt at the first signs of stress and run the rifle through another couple of thousand rounds with no problems. Thus, he started making a spare bolt assembly and barrel for each weapon produced.
Even then, Pappy had managed to produce and deliver one thousand of the final design assault rifles just last week. Another two thousand should be ready for delivery later this day. All of his 3D printer magazine and drums were already numbering in the tens of thousands. As long as he could keep up the supply of printer media, Pappy Gunn should have no problems meeting the production demands. He was also producing spare aircraft and vehicle parts, though this was taking a bit of tweaking to get the necessary quality control down.
In the back room sat another little experiment. Using spare 3D printer plastic and polymer material, he had made all the parts for a Colt black powder cap and ball revolver. He had managed to fit them together and found out the less sharp explosion that black powder produced (being a low order explosive) was easily handled by the polymers he had developed for his modern weapons. So far, the commensurate scrounger had produced a single black powder revolver each week in his spare time. They could become emergency back-up weapons or guerilla weapons he could drop behind the lines in Cattle Country. They lasted a lot longer than the throw away designs he had made for smokeless powder. One just had to come up with the percussion caps, powder and lead.
Pappy Gunn smiled. Things seemed to be coming together. Now, if he had just a few more weeks to work on all this he would feel a lot more secure.
The hotline to Security Control lit up and the phone range.
“Pappy here.” He listened for a few moments.
“Thanks for the call, Captain. I’ll start my recall.” He hung up the telephone. Damn. Tanks entering Kansas City, Kansas. And they weren’t friendly.
The proverbial balloon had just gone up.
CHAPTER 3
That which does not kill you, makes you stronger.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
The Free Russians, Free Japanese, Free Americans proved him correct. As they say in America, proved him right in spades.
-Excerpt from the Collected Works of Princess Akiko, Free Japan Royal Family.
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS
Sergeant “Whitey” Brown was sitting on the roof of the high rise overlooking the I-70 bridge that crossed the Kansas River from Kansas City, Missouri. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to show over the horizon, not yet sunrise. The early stages of daylight caused the human eye to begin the switch between rods and cones eye cells, and made a person’s vision less distinct, objects a bit hazier. But Whitey’s ears were unaffected by any lighting changes.
Sgt. Brown had gotten the nickname Whitey as he was claimed to be the lightest-skinned African American in the U.S., with the except a possible albino. His mother had been rather dark-skinned, his father had been a light-skinned Englishman. He had the broad nose, thicker lips some tribes in Africa seemed to primarily exhibit, but his skin color belied his mother’s ancestry. Thus, the nickname.
He suddenly turned to look at the 1-70 overpass, as Kansas Militia Sergeant Jim James spit a wad of chew over the edge of the building for the umpteenth time. Whitey stood up in a low crouch and tried to pierce the pre-sunrise gloom with his eyes.
“What’s up, Whitey?” Both men were retreads, having prior service in the days before the Squid Invasion, or Infestation. More and more people were wont to reenlist since a speech by Madam President. Sgt. James had joined the local militia some five years ago in order to help protect his community from the ravages of roving bands of Ferals. Whitey Brown had stayed off the radar until after the attack on Key West, when he saw there just might be a chance to get some payback against the Squids. A lot of so called “late bloomers” were sent out to work with the militias after going through Major Bender and company’s retread training. The thought was that the experienced militias would not put up with any crap or hidden malcontents when it came to protecting their homesteads. It also served to help improve communications between regular forces and the militias.
Whitey grabbed the high-powered binoculars they had for use at this lookout post.
“I was a tanker in my previous life. I could swear I hear the unique sound of an M-1 turbine engine. No other sound quite like it.”
Just then, a large shape came out of the indistinct lighting. It was an M-1 main battle tank moving at speed across the bridge toward the barricade of wrecked cars. If you wanted access to Kansas City, Kansas, you had to climb over the cars, or swim the river below. The M-1 was not going to do either.
“Crap!” Whitey exclaimed as the M-1, large dozer blade attached, slammed into the wrecked cars. It seemed to slow a bit, and then it was through, an M-1 sized path pushed through the makeshift barricade. “I did not want to be right.” He scrambled for the Bender rocket launcher that had been provided, more for noise and signaling than as anti-tank defense. It was an early black powder warhead type, would just scrape a MBT’s armor. Jim James grabbed a signal flare gun and let it rip. The bright red flare arched over toward the center of what was left of the city. Then he yelled over their field telephone. “Tanks in the wire. I say again, Tanks in the wire.”
Behind the tank was another, then two more. Then a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, followed by a couple of pickup trucks with figures in the beds. Whitey man handled the oversized eight inch Bender up to his shoulder, almost a hundred pounds of it.
“Got a light, Sergeant?”
“Sure do,” replied Jim James as he produced a well-used Zippo lighter. “Want her lit?”
“Go for it.” Whitey tried to aim at a slowing pick-up truck. Sgt. Brown lit the three second fuse in the back of the launcher, jumped back. “Fire.” he yelled as he made sure he was well away from the rocket backblast area.
A small explosion, a loud whooshing sound, then a cloud of black powder smoke engulfed them as the rocket left the tube. The projectile arched toward the now stopped pickup, some three hundred yards away. Surprisingly accurate at a hundred, at this range it was all Kentucky windage and by guess and by golly. But luck seemed to be on their side, as the large rocket arched right into the passenger side open window.
The armed Kraken male had just enough time to look toward the projectile as it smashed his face in. The warhead failed to detonate, the pocket engine flaring out into the vehicle cab, setting the c
eiling liner on fire and splashing the driver with flames. The driver screamed, as did a couple of the occupants in the bed. The hair and clothes of the driver and smashed in face passenger were aflame, the driver screaming as he tried to free himself from his seat belt. The truck steering wheel turned and the vehicle went down an incline to a lower side street. The armed Krakens in the bed started to bail out of the moving pickup now in flames, screaming and cursing. One tripped on the side of the bed as she leapt out, her left arm being run over as she fell partially under the rear wheel. The noise of everything else drowned out the snap of her forearm bone. At the bottom of the incline, the pickup turned onto its side. The driver’s screaming stopped as his badly seared lungs and throat stopped functioning. He was soon dead, as was his cabmate.
50 Caliber rounds fired from one of the M-1s, as well as small arms rounds from various assault rifles that began to pepper the top floors of the high-rise building. Whitey grabbed the binoculars, and Jim James yanked the wires loose from the field phone. They made it to the roof exit door with their rifles and equipment as chunks of cement began to fly around their former fire position. As they clambered down the stairs, Whitey yelled out a question.
“Hey, how’d you get named James James?”
“Drunk dad, and mom was out of it from the drugs they used for the pain. Dad thought it was hilarious. Doesn’t matter now.”
“You got that right.” Just then, a Bradley 25mm chain gun opened up, and pieces from the upper stair well began falling on top of the fleeing soldiers.
“Fuck!” Whitey exclaimed. “Hell of a way to start Groundhog Day.”
CHAPTER 4
MALMSTROM ALLIED FORCES BASE
GREAT FALLS, MONTANA
General Reed sat in the Headquarters conference room, looking at the computer images displayed on the wall screen. The other attendees were Pappy Gun, Head of Intelligence Major Aleks Smirnov who had just returned to work, and Colonel Anton Popov, Free Russian Forces and uncle to Inna Popov (Russian intelligence, spy and one of the original Russian three sisters with Aleks).
“So,” John Reed started. “Based on our limited drone surveillance and HUMINT sources on the ground fighting, we have some four MBTs, eight Bradleys, and an a sundry of other support vehicles, both military and civilian that have just smashed through Kansas City, Kansas. How many troops estimated total, and how many fighters are there, Major?”
“Some two thousand in the initial tip of the spear, General. But coming up from some ten miles away are an estimated thirty-eight thousand more.”
“We missed such a massing of forces near borders how?”
It was Pappy’s turn. “We are short on surveillance drones and other aircraft. I’ve got some more in the pipeline but have been concentrating on munitions production. Guess I was wrong.”
General Reed looked at Aleks. “Knowing you just came back from maternity leave, any idea how our hacking into still existing surveillance and global mapping satellites and HUMINT sources gave us no clue?”
“General, there was some movement noticed. But it looked like a response to the revolts in Cattle Country. People thought any additional forces were being massed to use against the rebels resisting being harvested.”
The General paused for a moment, staring at the screen. Then he spoke. “Like they used to say, hindsight always seems to be twenty-twenty. So, now we need to have a very timely response.”
He addressed Colonel Popov. “Think you can get a blocking force down there in forty-eight hours?”
Colonel Popov, senior Allied Field Commander, was a stereotypical looking Russian. A bit broad, stocky, no taller than General Reed, with a Slavic face. He gave a textbook sly Russian smile. “I already have a few people en route to aid the militia, General. Including one of your snipers, with a reputation from Key West, who magically appeared and volunteered. I hope you don’t mind that I accepted.”
The General snorted. “Why not? I have a small core of soldiers who have a tendency to charge toward the sound of gunfire without going through the chain of command. I know who you speak of and we can spare him. But the main force, please coordinate that with my commanders. I need to keep track of who is where. This may not be the only attack and I have a limited number of bodies I can submit. About fifty-five thousand trained soldiers this minute, with thousands more in the pipeline.”
“General, you have twenty-five hundred Free Russians, ninety-nine percent are Special Forces Trained. Another thousand are a few days away. I have already contacted our Japanese friends. They will give us who we ask for, but their primary support are the F-15J-Kai aircraft, as well as some other trained pilots for American air assets you are bringing on line.”
At the mention of air assets, General Reed glanced at Pappy.
“The Fairchild assets we found are ready to go?”
“Ninety percent are, General. I have a few Russian supplied armor assets ready also. Artillery, still limited.”
“Alright, people. Marching orders. Colonel, two thousand troops in Kansas tomorrow. Americans and Russians primarily. I’ll get the Japanese air assets ready to go, though I do not want to draw too much attention yet. I still have visions of lined up Squid Falcons, frying everything moving.”
“Not worried about the deltas, General?” Pappy interjected.
“Not really, thanks to all the SAMs and air to air high speed missiles the Russians and Japanese have supplied. Plus all the Russian anti-aircraft guns that were scrounged up. They may be able to outspeed and outmaneuver our jets above five thousand feet, but they can’t dodge those missiles all day. Their air to air stuff is not really better than ours, if we use the right tactics. They won’t have surprise this time.”
“Pappy, get everything that can fight up and ready.”
Pappy grinned. “Aye aye, Sir.”
“Major, coordinate with Pappy here, get some surveillance and intelligence going. I need real time info on what these Kraken assholes are up to.” He paused for a moment, then continued.
“This is strictly a punishment raid. They’ll pound through poor Bloody Kansas, maybe into Colorado. If they wanted an all-out war, robocops and Falcons would be kicking our asses right now. We need to protect the civilians from the cannibalistic and murderous Krakens, then kick their balls back to Squid town. Any questions? Good. Give me a SITREP every two hours, or if something drastic happens. Dismissed.”
Colonel Popov and Aleks stood and saluted. As they began to leave with Pappy, the General motioned to Aleks. “A quick word, Major.”
General Reed waited until the other two had left, then spoke.
“A certain Marine we both know and love has been ringing my telephone to death. I know what he wants. But he can’t go. Not yet. I still need him as a heroic symbol. In one piece. He and Abigail, and you to a lesser extent, have been a huge boost to civilian morale. I can’t have your, his invincibility questioned, not yet. I just thought I’d warn you that he will not be happy when I finally talk to him. Understand, Aleks?”
She looked at the man who was the godfather to her sons, and was becoming a father figure to Abigail Young. She knew why he was making this decision.
“General, I understand. I do not want Torbin to be wounded, killed either. But…”
“I can tell that “but” means something large. Please, spell it out.”
Aleks sighed. “My husband is a warrior, through and through. That is what he does, that is what he is good at. Keep him from that, eventually he will become so bitter as to be useless to everyone. Or he will disobey orders, and go to the sound of gunfire. Then you will have to court martial him. Then you will lose your hero, anyways.”
John Reed looked at the Russian-Ukrainian woman, who was becoming more like a daughter-in-law every day, because Torbin was like a son to him. He knew she was right, knew that it took a lot to let him go and get shot at. But she also wanted him happy, contented. If he was not allowed to fight again, he had get that desire out of his system himself, and what
she said was true.
“Okay, Aleks. I understand. But this operation right now is not how I need him. I’ll know when the time comes when and how to use him and his special talents. Okay?
“Of course, General. You are in command.” She started to salute him again but the General did something completely out of character. He reached over and hugged Aleks.
“Not military decorum, but you and Torbin are family to me. And those godsons of mine. Pass this hug on to them.”
Aleks hung on for a few moments more. Yes, he was family. Then, she stepped back and smiled. “I will give my sons a big hug, and tell them it is from their godfather. Now, I go to fight the war.”
On the way out of the command building, Colonel Popov approached her.
“Pardon me, Major, but I have to ask. What is the significance of Bloody Kansas?”
“American Civil War. All about slavery, trying to decide who was on what side. A lot of civilians were massacred.”
“Was it as bloody as our Civil War? Battles in the Revolution?”
“Colonel, to them it was. And that is what matters to the General.”
CHAPTER 5
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS
John Talbot, former President of the Kraken Motorcycle Gang and now Commander of the Kraken Invasion Force, watched the transport vehicles drive by. He was standing up through the sunroof of a high end dark SUV, his command vehicle. He watched as an eclectic assemblage of vehicles went by, jammed to the gills with as many people as they could hold.
Greyhound buses, school buses, former armored bank cars, cattle tucks, horse trailers pulled by heavy pick-up trucks, semis, and even an ex-military deuce and a half, all slowly motored by. Talbot figured that they may be averaging twenty miles an hour through the area surrounding Kansas City, Kansas.
Typhoon of Steel Page 4