Chain Breakers (Nuclear Winter Book 3)

by Nathan Jones

  He wondered if their society was back to that now, or if Canada's production of refined fuel would be enough to jump them past that particular hurdle and back to planes and engine-powered boats.

  His squad mate seemed to agree with his sentiments. “Next time I complain about being stationed in Missouri, half a continent away from the ocean to either side, remind me I could be perched on a glorified piece of driftwood hoping the sea stays calm.”

  “But not too calm or the sails wouldn't take you anywhere,” Pete agreed with a wry twist of his mouth. “I'm totally with you, man.”

  Silence settled after that, their large convoy following smaller dirt and gravel roads as much as possible to avoid encountering random enemy patrols. Meanwhile scouts in quieter vehicles went ahead and to the sides to the limits of where the convoy's engines could be heard, making sure that if they were discovered they could take out the enemy before they sent word. Or at the worst have some advance warning that trouble was headed their way.

  The hilly countryside made scouting a bit awkward, but it also provided good vantage points to see the surrounding area as long as they knew the terrain. And the 103rd and 51st had brought several locals who'd lived in the area and were familiar with it, so they did. Probably far better than the CCZ thugs who now occupied the region.

  But as reasonable as their precautions were, they turned out to be unnecessary. This part of southern Missouri had been the boonies even before the Gulf of Mexico burned, causing the nation to run out of gas overnight and sending everyone scrambling to survive within weeks. Take into account the devastating depopulation that had occurred that first winter afterwards, followed by the nuclear war of the Retaliation in the spring and the Gold Bloc invasion and occupation afterwards, killing any Americans they encountered or rounding them up for slave labor, then the first nuclear winter on top of it all, and Pete doubted more than a handful of people living in this area had survived.

  Since the blockheads didn't seem too interested in it, either, and after an hour of driving they were far enough away from the Mississippi to dodge patrols, that meant the area was eerily deserted. Not that Pete got to see much of it, aside from the glimpses he caught out the back of Epsilon Squad's troop transport. Most of the picture he put together from reports overheard on the radio.

  Lost Home was about an hour and a half drive away from the border, close enough to be accessible as a base camp for patrols but far enough back to be safe from attack. Or so the enemy had assumed. Pete tensed to alertness with the rest of his squad mates when the advance scouts reported back that they'd sighted the camp, confirming their intel that it was lightly guarded and most of the guards were there to keep the slaves from escaping or revolting.

  Orders came quick but orderly over the radio, and the convoy split up into three groups: one to rush ahead and take full advantage of the element of surprise, while the other two circled around north and south to hit the camp from the sides and behind with all possible speed.

  The 51st had claimed the dubious honor of frontal assault, which left the 103rd squads to do support and cleanup. Along with preventing the escape of any fleeing enemy vehicles and hitting the camp's flanks, that duty also included scouting out in all directions to make sure the raiding force wasn't caught by surprise by an incoming patrol as they sacked Lost Home and freed the slaves.

  Pete had been relieved to hear that Epsilon wouldn't be on scouting duty, but frustrated that they were one of the squads who'd be circling around and hitting the camp from the back. Which meant they'd be last to join the fighting, and might miss it altogether if they had to wrangle fleeing enemies.

  Their transport's engines roared as the convoy accelerated to its best possible speed. Within minutes he could hear the distant sound of gunfire over the roar of the engines, but no warning came that it was directed towards them, which meant it was the 51st starting the assault.

  His headset crackled with the voice of Captain Tremblay, commander of the 103rd. “We've got slaves working the fields in all directions, and a few guards. 1st Platoon, Alpha advances on the camp and Beta combs the fields. 2nd and 3rd Platoons, same drill. 4th, 5th, you're on scouting and wrangling. Help with the fields along the perimeter if you can.”

  Pete felt a surge of relief and elation. Since Epsilon was first squad in 3rd Platoon that meant they'd be continuing on to camp, rather than running through fields herding freed slaves to safety.

  It felt like only moments later when their truck skidded to a halt, and Sergeant Branson screamed, “Epsilon MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!”

  Pete joined his squad mates boiling out the back of the truck, bringing his weapon to the ready as his boots hit pavement. They'd parked just below the crest of a low hill, with fields spreading off in all directions dotted with slaves who'd stopped their work to gape at the truck with its emerging soldiers. The few slaver guards out there were already exchanging fire with Foxtrot, those who hadn't been mown down already.

  With Branson leading the way Epsilon trotted up and over the hill and down the other side. Lost Home spread in front of them, a sprawling mass of ragged tents and buildings crudely constructed from scrap wood and metal. It was encircled by a low chain-link fence topped by straight razor wire, while one section of camp was enclosed in a taller fence topped by coils of concertina wire. That would be where the slaves were housed, as evidenced by the squalor inside.

  There was a simple hinged gate leading through the fence along the road they'd driven up on, currently with no sign of guards. Pete could only assume they'd either bolted for the eastern end of the camp to fend off the attack there or they'd abandoned their post to run or hide.

  There were two guard towers at the northwestern and southwestern corners of the camp, though, each with a pair of guards. Those soldiers were also turned towards the 51st and the frontal attack, though, and barely had time to respond as Branson snapped out an order and Epsilon raised rifles and shot them from behind.

  Then the sergeant was bolting for the gate in a zigzag run. “Eyes open ahead!” he called over his shoulder. “I don't want any of you idiots getting gunned down by friendly fire from our Canadian buddies.”

  They quickly reached the gate and ran for cover behind the nearest buildings. From there Branson inspected the western end of the camp, trying to stay hidden among the confusion of slaves, camp civilians, and a few guards and slavers running in all directions while he assessed the situation.

  He whispered a quick update into his radio, then pointed. “Team 1, with me to that motor pool there. Team 2, the garage beside it. Team 3, that building there, the administrative looking one.”

  Pete was part of Team 3, which was led by Saunders. The target Branson had assigned them was one of smaller but more solid structures, which had communications equipment and other technology perched on its roof. Any soldiers who'd been guarding the building were gone, leaving them a clear entry.

  Assuming they hadn't fled inside to prepare some nasty surprises.

  Saunders led the way at a run for the administration building, going from cover to cover and staying along the walls of nearby buildings. As he went he shouted for the terrified slaves and civilians running chaotically in all directions like chickens with their heads cut off to get on the ground with their hands on their heads, and incongruously also that they were safe.

  The few blockhead guards running around were shot on sight by the team leader and the following members of Team 3, with Pete at the back covering their rear.

  They reached the building quickly, and Saunders motioned for Pete to join him taking the front while the other two members of the team took a side door. Pete posted up on one side of the door while his friend took the other, checking the doorknob.

  Locked, and the door looked solid.

  Over the radio he heard their squad mates reporting they were ready at the other door, also locked. Saunders handed Pete a smoke grenade, gave him a nod, then quietly counted down over the radio.

  On “one” the
private pivoted and fired a burst into the wood on the left side of the doorknob, then kicked the door solidly on the other side of it. It swung open and Pete lobbed the grenade in, then they both ducked away in a crouch as a hail of gunfire poured through the doorway.

  That qualified as a nasty surprise, although since they'd been expecting it Pete supposed it wasn't really.

  Screams came from inside as the grenade detonated and smoke boiled in to fill the small interior. A moment later he heard the sound of the other door being kicked in, joined by more gunfire. The hail of bullets coming through their door petered out, and Saunders nodded to Pete and went through low, scuttling to the left.

  Pete followed and scrambled right, expecting to be hit at any second. He had a bit of training and real life experience with breaching rooms, but not much, and he couldn't think of many things he hated worse than this. His preference would've been to toss a fragmentation grenade in there instead of smoke to make sure entry was nice and safe.

  Okay, that wasn't really his preference since he absolutely agreed civilian casualties was a big no-no, and from the screaming he heard in the room there had to be at least a few along with the guards. Including women from the sounds of it.

  Which meant he had to be careful with his shots.

  He caught sight of muzzle flashes through the smoke, and a desk loomed out of the blinding swirl in front of him. He took cover behind it and aimed for the muzzle flashes, well aware that he'd be giving away his own position with every shot. Over along the side wall he saw more muzzle flashes from his squad mates, helping him and Saunders pin down the enemy and hit them from two sides.

  The next minute or so was a chaotic nightmare. The firefight didn't last long as the initial guards were gunned down, but then it seemed to spring up again as idiots in the drifting smoke decided to gather up the fallen blockheads' weapons and resume firing. He heard men and women screaming, shouting in Chinese, and saw hazy shapes in the smoke cowering behind desks or trying to crawl towards the door.

  Saunders was screaming in Chinese too, the few phrases he knew ordering the enemy to surrender, throw down their weapons, and stay on the ground with their hands on their heads.

  The smoke gradually cleared enough to reveal the general shape of the room, and Pete finally heard the sound of a man screaming in Chinese that his people surrendered. Near the other door Private Griggs was slow to hear and kept firing even after that, mowing down a middle aged man who'd just thrown away a pistol and raised his arms in surrender.

  That was a painful reminder for Pete, of back when he'd disappointed Matt by doing something similar. But now wasn't the time for self reflection, and he ruthlessly shoved that pang of regret down as Saunders cautiously stood.

  “Team 3, casualties?”

  “Fine here,” Pete called. His other squad mates wasted no time chiming in that they were also unharmed.

  “Good.” Saunders began barking orders to Team 3 and the Chinese both.

  The team leader guarded the doors as Pete and the other two team members carefully spread through the room, moving among the desks to check and disarm bodies, secure and search the surviving camp administrator and his staff, and look for further threats.

  It was a slow, nerve-wracking process, especially since Pete was on high alert. His skin crawled with every step as he tried to look everywhere for possible threats or treachery. Which was why when he shone his rifle's attached flashlight behind a desk directly into a pale, frightened face with wide eyes, the resulting childish scream startled him almost as much as he must've startled the girl. It took all his self control not to reflexively fire.

  A moment later he was very, very glad he hadn't.

  Behind the desk huddled three children dressed in coarse sackcloth, two girls and a boy. They could've been anywhere between eight to in their early teens, their age hard to tell due to their sticklike limbs and hollow faces. The girl who'd screamed and the boy were splattered with the blood of a nearby fallen guard, and all three stared at him with stark terror in their eyes.

  The girl who'd screamed started keening, a low, heart-wrenching sound, and a dark stain spread across her baggy dress as she wet herself.

  Pete hastily lowered his rifle, feeling like a monster even though he'd come to save these children along with the other slaves. Last he knew the blockheads hadn't bothered taking kids this young, so seeing them here was genuinely a surprise.

  He slowly dropped into a crouch, making his voice as gentle as possible. “Hey, it's okay. You're safe now.”

  The girl, looking equal parts frightened and ashamed of her sodden clothes, spoke up in a small voice. “You're not blockheads?”

  He smiled reassuringly. “We're US soldiers, come to free you and take you to safety.” He solemnly held out his hand. “I'm Pete.”

  Although he'd intended to help the girl to her feet, as a prelude to getting her and the other two kids the heck out of this scene of carnage, the girl instead took his hand and shook it with equal solemnity. “I'm Lily,” she replied. Behind her, the other two kids offered their names in tiny peeps, Zach and Kelly.

  “Well, Lily, Zach, and Kelly, let's get you out of here, okay?” Pete held out his hand again, this time starting to help Lily to her feet.

  The girl rose on wobbling legs. But the moment she had a view beyond the desk and saw the dead guards scattered around the room, the two heavily armed members of Epsilon squad roughly manhandling the surviving administrators into a group to haul out of there, and the blood on the walls, she collapsed back to the ground keening in terror again.

  Pete dropped down with her. “Shh, shh, it's okay,” he whispered. “Do you want me to carry you?”

  Lily shook her head, looking at the ground in deepest shame. “I peed myself,” she confessed.

  He supposed any kid would be humiliated about that, but she was at that vulnerable age in between child and teenager where it would be especially mortifying. “It's alright. I peed myself during a fight once, too. I know they're scary.”

  “You've peed yourself?” Zach blurted, loud enough for half the room to hear. “But you're a soldier!” Pete heard his squad mates snicker.

  He ignored them, nodding solemnly at the three kids. “Even soldiers get scared. I don't mind carrying you, Lily. Let's get you out of here.”

  The girl hesitantly held out her hands, and Pete slung his rifle across his back and scooped her up into his arms. In spite of his words he wasn't exactly thrilled about the dampness soaking into his shirt, or the smell, but he would've put up with worse for the sake of a poor child who'd already been through so much.

  Even considering Lily's small size the malnourished girl barely seemed to weigh anything. Pete managed to carry her with one arm, freeing a hand to offer to Zach, who took Kelly's hand so they could all leave together.

  By the time he got outside with his young charges the camp was a much different place. Hundreds of freed slaves were being gently led towards the waiting trucks of the 51st, while dozens of blockhead slavers had been lined up in the center of camp awaiting their fate. Near the slavers almost three times that many CCZ civilians were bunched in a group under guard.

  The slavers would be executed for their crimes. Pete personally didn't have a problem with that, given everything the enemy had done, although he'd heard plenty of people express reservations.

  But whatever anyone felt, the simple fact of the matter was that the Gold Bloc in the past and the present CCZ refused to take prisoners of war, either executing or enslaving captured soldiers and civilians alike. To add to that the enemy refused to negotiate the release of the prisoners and slaves they'd captured, and showed no interest in ransoming their own captured soldiers either.

  That put the US and Canada in an awkward position, especially considering the agreement the two countries had made at Mexico's trade summit, that banditry and the taking, holding, or sale of slaves were hanging offenses.

  On top of those considerations, it was a guarantee that if
any captured blockhead soldiers were simply allowed to go free they'd immediately turn around and join the fight again, killing more innocents. It had happened on more than one occasion. The slavers seemed to be nothing but mindless hate and brutality, not leaving many options where their fate was concerned.

  So for the time being no quarter was given or received. Some called this radical change in military policy one of the greatest casualties of the fight against the Gold Bloc, but Pete was of a mind that the more than hundred million innocent people the enemy had murdered weighed far heavier.

  Either way it wasn't up to him. He could imagine Matt frowning in disapproval at the executions, but when it came down to it Pete followed orders. That, at least, was a lesson his friend had seemed eager to teach him.

  As for the CCZ civilians, they'd be left behind to clean up the ruin of their camp and tell their compatriots what had happened. Pete had no doubt that there were plenty of people among that number who were just as guilty of mistreating slaves as the camp's soldiers had been, if not worse. But his orders about not mistreating civilians, even blockheads, had been crystal clear and repeatedly pounded into his and his fellow soldiers' skulls.

  Although the slave camp civilians weren't making it easy. They shoved at each other and cursed at the Canadian soldiers guarding them, and a few tried to bolt to freedom or charged their guards. Those were tackled or got a rifle butt to the face, orders or no, while the other soldiers guarding them prominently displayed canisters of pepper spray in case the prisoners continued to misbehave.

  The CCZ civilians genuinely seemed to hate US and Canadian soldiers alike, judging by the murderous glares worn by even those who weren't resisting. Pete couldn't understand how they could justify that hatred, when their lives were being spared after they'd taken other human beings as slaves and brutally mistreated them. Were they just blind to their own crimes, or did their hatred run so deeply they were past self reflection?