Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1)

by L. Douglas Hogan

  The twelve soldiers were being led by Sergeant Feliks Paparov (or Papa as his men called him), a bloodthirsty Russian combat veteran. He was smart and adapted well to any combat environment, whether it be desert, urban, jungle, or woodland.

  Papa saluted the captain he was detailed to work with, and rounded up his men for a duty gear check. In his Russian language, he told his men, “I want each of you to pair off and double-check each other for operational readiness. Make sure your weapons are loaded and your breathing apparatuses are properly fastened. Don and clear to make sure you have a good seal.”

  After each of the men had stopped searching one another and he saw they were finished moving about, he called them to attention.

  “Fall in,” he yelled at them, and followed that command by, “Straighten up,” which was a Russian command prompting them for the next command.

  “Attention,” he yelled, snapping the men into a tight standing position. Their rifles were in their right hands with the buttstock of each resting on the ground next to their right foot.

  “Men, we are going into combat. The area we have been chosen to clear out has previously been isolated and cleared by Biocontrol units. There is an unidentified sickness in those buildings and it would do you well to keep your masks on. These Americans are trained well, but are hungry and desperate. They will make mistakes that you will not. Prepare yourself for glory.”

  The men began shouting from their position of attention.

  “Kill, kill, kill.”

  Their yells were uniform and echoed through the quiet storefront buildings, reaching the ears of Nathan and the Recon Marines, who were just nesting down after a rapid deployment from the area that was being directly affected by the direct energy attack.

  Jess was now waking up after her encounter with the weapon. “How long was I out?”

  “Maybe an hour. I’m not sure,” Nathan replied.

  “What happened?”

  “These guys said it was some kind of an energy weapon. The group was scattered when it went off. I couldn’t see Denny, but I saw you, after I came to my senses.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Not far from the shoot-out.”

  A Recon Marine, Lance Corporal Henderson, was looking out of one of the windows towards the direct energy weapon.

  “We are going to have to set up an evac route. There’s not enough of us to secure a decent perimeter.”

  Jess looked around the dimly lit room and counted four. “There’s only four of us?”

  “Yeah, those two,” Nathan said, pointing at the two Marines that saved him, “and us.”

  “Not very good odds,” she said.

  “We may be better off than we suspect,” Corporal Anders said.

  “How’s that?” Henderson asked.

  “I’m sure there’s more of us than four. We’re just split up, right?”

  “Right,” Nathan clued in. “And if there’s gunfire, backup might just stop by.”

  As if on cue, a massive firefight began outside.

  Nathan, Jess, Henderson, and Anders listened for a moment. They could hear the distinct sounds of AK-47s being shot against America’s preferred Colt-style rifles. The sounds were mixed with a variety of other distinct rifles.

  “That’s our crew,” Nathan said.

  “How do you know?” Henderson asked.

  “Who else could pack a ragtag group of American firepower together in one location?”

  No sooner than Nathan had figured out who the attack was coming from, they heard the distinct sound of the direct energy weapon being fired off. The gunshots ceased and their joy seemed to melt away at the thought of what might have just happened. The anticipation in the room was high and they all feared the worst-case scenario.

  Nathan jumped to his feet.

  “No way,” Anders said. “We can’t go back out there.”

  Nathan did a quick assessment of what he had. Jess still had shaky motor skills, and that left three. It wasn’t enough help to run out into the unknown environment against an enemy of unknown size with superweapons.

  Nathan plopped back down onto the floor and waited for darkness.

  Denny and Morgan weren’t far from Nathan’s position. Each of them had no idea where the other members of the group were. They would often hear the sounds of gunfire, reminiscent of the old West movies, except these weapons were more sophisticated and came in much higher calibers.

  When Denny had awakened from his sleep, he didn’t say a word to Morgan. He knew that Morgan had rendered him unconscious, and he was holding a grudge. It wasn’t that he was angry with Morgan, he understood why he did what he did, but the frustration of being suckered in the back got under his skin.

  It was now dark outside, but the sounds of shootings in the streets were still hyperactive.

  Morgan, sensing that Denny was about to make his move, said, “Look, it’s dark out there. It’s what you’ve been waiting for, but you hear the sounds of gun fighting. What if they have night vision?”

  “If they have night-vision capability, then I guess they have the advantage. Either way, I’m not going to die cowering in some lame building on my knees. If I die, it’s going to be on my feet. Resisting!”

  “Well, I hope you have a plan.”

  “Thanks for caring, Morg, but my plan is to survive. Aim small, miss small.”

  “Huh? Is that some kind of military lingo?”

  Denny just looked at Morgan and wondered how any civilian could survive in hostile territory.

  When Morgan saw that Denny was staring blankly at him, he said, “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m just missing my veteran friends.”

  “You know, I get the feeling from you veterans that you think you’re better than us civilians. In fact, when I hear you guys talking, you call us civilians as if it’s a derogatory thing. Why is that?”

  Denny knew that Morgan was picking a fight. The hook was baited and he was still frustrated with Morgan for knocking him out, so he took the bait.

  “Morgan, you would probably be dead if not for the veterans with combat experience or even training, for that matter.”

  “So it’s true, you think you’re better than us.”

  “It’s not that we’re better than you, we’re just better equipped, all the way around.”

  “Better equipped? You can’t even watch your back. I had to knock you out from behind because you’re so gung ho that you can’t think straight.”

  “Yeah, about that. I gave you my back because I trusted you. A weakness I won’t demonstrate anymore.”

  Denny grabbed his pack from the corner and put it on his back.

  “Thanks for watching over me, but if I can’t trust you with my back, then I’m going to be heading out, alone.”

  “Fine. You veterans can get by just fine without us civilians. Good luck!” Morgan shouted.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. There’s UN soldiers outside of these walls. They’re looking for us, and you want to raise your voice. That’s ignorant civilian stuff.”

  “Just go,” Morgan said, trying to get the last word.

  Denny was tired of all the talking. He wasn’t a good debater and even worse at holding conversations. He was more of a thinker than anything. What he knew to be true was that Morgan had raised his voice one too many times, and that made him nervous that their position had been given away. When he had his backpack securely fastened on his shoulders, he double-checked his pocket to make sure his Karambit was still there.

  He walked up to the door, pulled it open, and pulled his Karambit from his pocket.

  Morgan walked up to him and Denny spotted him.

  “What are you doing, Morg?”

  “I’m not going to let a veteran die alone. You’re taking a knife to a gunfight. Not so smart for a veteran.”

  “I’m not going to die.”

  “You don’t know that. Death comes to us all.”

  “Now you’re sounding like a veteran
. We may be rubbing off on you.”

  Denny turned back to the door.

  Morgan’s view was obstructed by Denny, who was standing in the doorway.

  When Denny was fully facing outward, six UN soldiers in Biocontrol suits stepped into view. The lead soldier pointed a Russian PK machine gun at him.

  It all happened so fast that there was only reflex time. Denny ducked out of the way, exposing Morgan to the shooter. It wasn’t a lack of care or even a lack of knowledge, it was a lack of time to coordinate the necessary motor skills to verbalize what Denny said too late.

  “Incoming!” he yelled as he ducked to the side.

  Morgan heard the call, but it was too late. A firestorm of 7.62 mm belt-fed projectiles went sailing through Morgan. Denny kicked the door closed and took cover in a darkened cubbyhole.

  Morgan was now groping at his chest and trying to find Denny in the dark.

  Denny was calling to Morgan, but the bullets were still being shot through the door. Denny could barely see Morgan, because of the light that was coming through the door. One of the UN soldiers had some kind of a back-mounted lighting system. To Denny, it was both a blessing and a curse. It gave away the soldier’s position, but it also blinded and gave away his position. At the moment, the light was shining through the bullet holes in the door and putting light on Morgan, who was trying to take cover.

  Denny called to him, but his calls were shrouded in the barrage.

  “Denny, help.”

  “Morgan, come towards my voice.”

  “Denny, I’m all shot up.”

  “Morgan!”

  The shots subsided, if but for a moment, giving Denny the opportunity he needed to save Morgan.

  He ran over to Morgan and grabbed him by the back of the chest rig he was wearing and pulled him into the cubby.

  “I can’t breathe, Denny,” Morgan gurgled.

  “You’re talking, that means you’re breathing.”

  Denny knew Morgan was in bad shape. There were several bullet holes in his body and blood was streaming out beneath him.

  Denny had Morgan resting on his lap, with his rifle pointing towards the door.

  The door was kicked open by the UN soldiers that were on the other side and following them was another barrage of bullets. They came running into the room, but only one was shooting at Morgan and Denny. The gunshots seemed to be slowing as Denny took Morgan’s rifle and shot at the lead soldier that had kicked the door open and ran in first.

  The other soldiers were being shot at from outside of the room. Denny was unsure if he had caught any bullets and was too consumed with adrenaline to stop and figure it out.

  One by one, guns stopped shooting. The man that was firing on Morgan and Denny was dying on the floor.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m coming in,” a familiar feminine voice said.

  “They’re all dead,” she said as she stepped into the room, throwing the breathing apparatuses of the four UN troops Denny could not see onto the floor and into the lit area just outside of his cubbyhole where Denny was hiding.

  The lady couldn’t see who was in the room. She went back to the UN troop that had the lighting accessory on his pack and took it off. Carrying it back into the room, she used her left hand to guide the light, and her right hand to hold her pistol.

  Denny was confident that Morgan was dead by now. He had his left hand over his chest feeling for a rising chest, but there was nothing. Keeping Morgan’s weapon trained on the light that was approaching him, he felt Morgan’s carotid artery. Morgan was dead.

  The light peeked around the corner of the room and lit up Denny’s face.

  His left hand now up to block the piercing light, he said, “If you’re here to kill me, get it over with. I’m hungry.”

  “Denny?” the woman said.

  Setting the light down onto the floor, it now shone upon the white ceiling, reflecting enough light into the area for Denny to see the lady who had just saved his life.

  “Tori?”

  CHAPTER IX

  Bicentennial Park, Indiana, December 13

  Rory Price had made the decision to stay behind. The trek from southern Illinois to northwest Indiana was a long one, but all the talk of deviating off of the current mission objective and into South Dakota was not in his plans. He was missing his wife and daughter severely, and it now seemed in vain that he had traveled this far to save Americans from certain annihilation at the hands of tyrannical domestic and foreign enemies. He kept hearing rumors of a classified mission and the thought of unknown objectives didn’t sit right with him.

  Charles Buchanan and John James had left the afternoon before, for their mission to South Dakota. Rory was sitting against a pine tree, in the frigid northern air breeze, reading his Bible and searching for direction through a silent prayer.

  He often found that God never spoke to him in a loud audible voice, but with soft impressions that always seemed to line up with the teachings of his Bible. This morning was no different, except he was cold and found it hard to focus on any one thing, like prayer or reading.

  As he sat against that pine tree, he thought of home, the old ways, and the simple life. That train of thought took him to a life in captivity, a life without freedoms that he wasn’t willing to just lay down and forget about. His next thought was of the people, like Jess, who had been captured by UN forces and rounded up like cattle. Most of them were not as fortunate as Jess. They weren’t rescued by resistance fighters or let go by a change of heart, but they were sent north, into the unknown, into unthinkable possibilities.

  Rory came to his decision.

  With a deep breath and a loud sigh, he stood up and pulled out the compass that one of Buchanan’s Marines had given him.

  Rory was assigned by Buchanan to be the chaplain of the group. It was an honor he gratefully accepted. The Marines came to like and to trust Rory as a capable fighter and man of God—two descriptions some had problems reconciling. The issue was as clear as night and day to Rory. He even gave a Bible study to the Marines he was with on one of the Ten Commandments, “Thou shalt not kill.” He took them to the original Hebrew word for kill, which is ratsach, and explained how the true definition of the word is not as broad as the English definition. In Hebrew, the commandment is best rendered “Thou shalt not murder.” The killing that was going on wasn’t murder if done in self-defense. Rory’s Bible study relieved quite a bit of anxiety for the men who had a heavy conscience. Rory explained to them that Jesus never would have requested his disciples to have swords for anything other than self-defense. His Bible studies touched many people, and one of them saw fit to give Chaplain Rory Price a token. The token was the compass. To Rory, it was more than a gift that pointed north, but, like the Bible, if he stayed true to its direction, it would lead him in the right direction.

  The same Marine that gave him the compass showed him how to use it with a map. He opened the map he was given and laid it upon the ground. Using rocks to hold down the four corners, he did as he was taught. He laid the compass flat upon the map, being careful to line up the straight edge of the compass with the north-facing arrow of the map. Then he rotated the map until the compasses arrow was facing magnetic north. Then Rory located the GN and made adjustments. Using his straight edge, he drew a line from his position, in Bicentennial Park, to Goose Island, Chicago. With that reading, he adjusted the dial, and began his trek to Chicago, Illinois.

  Camp Parks Army Reserve Forces, Dublin, California

  Sergeant Briggs, along with the men and women of his Army Reserves unit, had gathered several hard drives laden with terabytes of data. Unfortunately, the small North Korean EMP attack rendered every electronic gizmo in California useless. It wasn’t that the data on the hard drives were corrupted, it was the fact that they couldn’t find a working computer.

  Camp Parks had running water and electricity, until it was discovered that the Reservists weren’t responding to the orders issued by President Adalyn Baker during the first days
of the Flip. Most of the Reservists left to join up with the UN command when they figured out they would be numbered with the resistance and have to go without a supply of life-saving water and food. Years before the Flip, California was suffering from liberal takeover of natural water supplies. The politicians continually wrote legislation allowing upwards of seventy percent of California’s natural water supplies to run off the mountains and into the deltas to save the fish. Sergeant Briggs didn’t find any humor in the fact that most of those politicians were now without water or, worse, dead. Like most other elected officials, they were rounded up and reintegrated with the people, where they found their final resting place somewhere other than a cemetery of their choosing.

  “What else do we have?” Sergeant Briggs asked Specialist Felicia Edwards.

  “Instruction manuals for Door Marking, Relocation Protocol, Consumer Intake—the list goes on and on.”

  “Is there anything on the power outage?”

  “Nothing. It’s like we were ghosted by a secret weapon.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if that’s not the case.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Think about it. Nothing electronic works. We huffed it back to the camp from the pen and nothing electronic between there and here was operable. What else could do that? I mean, if they killed the power, it wouldn’t have affected the cars or our radios.”

  “Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they drop a bomb. No pun intended.”

  “It wouldn’t make sense to EMP yourself, though.”

  “My ex-husband was a geek about this kind of stuff. He spent so much money prepping for doomsday that he tended to neglect other financial matters. It’s why we divorced. One time he made this cabinet thingy called a, uhh…” The word was escaping Felicia’s memory.

  “A Faraday cabinet?”