“Found them in a gulley south of the village of Mufaraji.”
“Had they been…” John paused.
“Decapitated? No. They’d been tortured, at least as far as we’ve been able to tell, but they weren’t mutilated.”
“Good. It’s horrible when the family has to see that sort of thing.” Whether they heard it on the news or not, John knew they would find out once the body arrived Stateside. Of course, the barbarity perpetrated by the enemy only strengthened his will to destroy them. “Wait, what do you mean as far as you can tell?”
Wright’s eyes dropped. “The EOD team’s still working on them.”
Wright’s answer confused John for a moment. EOD stood for Explosive Ordnance Disposal. He asked his sergeant to explain.
“Hutchinson and Davis were both rigged with an IED. Those initial explosives were attached to lines leading to others in the immediate area. The idea was to lure our boys in and then detonate to create more casualties.”
The bastards were using their commitment to leave no man behind against them. Now this would surely be in the news. Not that John gave a damn about the bad publicity. It was the young soldiers’ families having to hear about this. It was hard enough losing a loved one, but to lose them like this?
The other implication was something that showed ever so slightly in Wright’s expression. John had committed to bringing the missing soldiers home alive. A promise that he’d failed to keep.
Chapter 15
John awoke sweating profusely. He sat in the driver’s seat of his truck for a few moments, not entirely sure which was worse: the dream or his present reality.
After a simple breakfast of canned beans with Brandon, he went looking for Marshall. They were supposed to discuss the Chairman and a strategy for freeing Diane, Gregory, Emma and the Applebys. Making his way into the command tent, John looked around and saw that Marshall wasn’t around. In a corner of the tent, however, one of his men sat at a table with a radio, fiddling with dials amid a sea of static.
“Looks like not everything got fried by that EMP,” John said casually.
The man at the radio turned and introduced himself as Robert Rodriguez, call sign KZ4TG, a former military communications and electronics specialist.
“She’s an oldie,” Rodriguez said, making a dull clang as he patted the top of the radio. “I kept her in a Faraday cage, which is why she made it.”
John had done the same back at the house for a few of his more important items. He hadn’t bothered with radios in part because he’d never had the time to figure out how to use one properly. Although it had certainly been on his prepping list, along with a million other items. That was the addictive, never-ending nature of getting you and your family ready for a worst-case scenario. There was never enough time to cover every single eventuality. Pick your battles—a pearl of wisdom his mother had repeated her entire life, one he’d ended up applying in the most unlikely of situations.
“After the military,” Rodriguez told John, “I returned to Oneida and joined the Emergency Management Office. Once the country was hit, we began reaching out via our radios, first to local towns, then as far away as California and Oregon.” Rodriguez drew in a deep breath. “Wasn’t long, though, before they stopped responding.”
“Maybe more immediate survival needs took over,” John suggested. On Willow Creek, fiddling with radios hadn’t been their first priority.
Rodriguez looked at him knowingly. “People are busy just trying to get by. Yeah, that was my guess. But before long Jefferson City was the furthest west we could reach.”
“What about Europe?” John asked. “I heard these signals can travel quite a ways.”
Rodriguez seemed happy that someone else was finally taking an interest in something he was passionate about. “Oh, they can. But most of the folks in Europe we’ve spoken to are in it up to their eyeballs just like us. Seems like they were hit just like we were. But talking to them was a real waste since they ain’t got a clue who did it.”
“Truth be told, neither do we,” John told him. “I mean, it was an EMP. That much is clear, but who and for what purpose?”
Rodriguez snickered. “I could take a guess or two. You look through any history book and you’ll see what I mean. The day you become a dominant power in the world, everyone wants to knock you down a peg or two.”
“So how’d you end up as one of Marshall’s men?”
“Same reason you did.”
“The Chairman?”
Rodriguez nodded solemnly. “Soon as the Chairman came in waving those official papers around, he pretty much had the town eating out of his hand. First out was the mayor and then, one by one, the other members of the Emergency Management Office started disappearing.”
John’s eyes grew wide. “He was trying to isolate the town.”
“Seems that way. But I didn’t wait around long enough to find out. Grabbed my gear and carted it out of town under the cover of darkness.”
Rodriguez put his earphones back on and swiveled the knob on the radio.
“What are you hoping to hear?” John asked. “Word from the West Coast?”
“In part, yes. But since most of the country’s gone radio silent, we use our equipment to identify other nearby Patriots, pass information back and forth and coordinate attacks.”
That last part caught John’s attention. “Aren’t you worried someone’s gonna listen in and hear what you’re saying?”
The whites of Rodriguez’s eyes flashed with surprise at John’s insight.
“They can listen all they want,” Rodriguez told him. “First of all we use coded messages. Morse code backwards, sometimes pig Latin, or even a simple substitute cipher where we slide the alphabet off by one or more positions.”
“But surely they triangulate the signal and pinpoint your location?”
“Ah, that’s where it starts to get fun. We’ve got two counters to that. The first is what’s called EME, which stands for earth, moon, earth. By bouncing the signal off the surface of the moon, it makes tracing the signal incredibly difficult. Of course it requires larger antennas. The second method is a bit more complicated. It involves using a manual spread spectrum. Fancy talk for switching frequencies and swapping bands every sixty seconds. Every once in a while we use the same techniques to send out false information just to see if anyone’s managed to figure it all out.”
John’s head was starting to spin just listening. It sounded as though they had things under control.
“Any news coming out of Oneida?” John asked.
“Rodriguez, are you giving away all of your secrets?” It was Marshall, and in spite of his light-hearted tone, John could tell he wasn’t happy. Behind him was Moss and Sullivan.
“We’re on the same side,” John told him. “I was just wondering if you’d gotten any information coming from the town itself.”
“I know exactly what you were asking and I don’t doubt you’re being honest with us. We’ll be happy to share when the time is right.”
“Fair enough. Well, given you’ve been communicating with the outside world, maybe you can answer a few general questions.”
The muscles on Marshall’s face didn’t move. “What is it you’d like to know?”
“Well, for one,” John said. “Why haven’t we seen the military since the EMP hit?”
Marshall turned to Moss who explained. “Word is troops have been seen in convoys moving west.”
“For what purpose?” John asked.
“We’re not sure yet,” Marshall replied. “Our lines of communication don’t go beyond Jefferson City, Missouri anymore. But we’re working on it. It could be there’s a major uprising in some of the western states. Don’t forget California alone has a population of nearly forty million, four of which live in L.A. It’s not inconceivable the military’s been deployed to the areas that need them the most.”
“Knoxville was one of those places in need and we didn’t see a single uniform.”
/> “There may be other explanations, many of them far more grim, but why bother speculating before we have more information?”
John nodded. “So how do I get my family back?” He could see the question was a delicate one.
“You’re not the only person who’s lost someone to the Chairman,” Sullivan said, a lock of his blond hair tumbling into his face before he pulled it back with the flat of his hand. “We all have a score to settle. If it were that easy, don’t you think we would have hit the town already?”
Drawing in a deep breath, John tried to quell the frustration building up within him and listen to what these men had to say.
“The Chairman’s been consolidating his power since the beginning,” Marshall said. “He’s spent the last few weeks bleeding the mountains dry and scooping up every useful weapon he can muster. The people in town seem to be going along with him now since he’s got the backing of the president. Frankly, I’m sure half of ’em don’t believe a word of it, but if it’s between a liar who keeps the streets safe and an elected official who can’t, who would you choose?”
“The one who upholds the Constitution,” John replied. “Or was that a trick question?”
Marshall grinned. “Not at all. Although most of the folks in town are loyal Americans, they might not be Patriots.”
“You really believe that?” John asked, not even trying to mask his surprise.
Marshall tapped a finger on the table. “Don’t get me wrong. The folks in Oneida are patriotic, I’m not arguing that, but the men and women in this camp are ready to lay down their lives to free their families and defend the Constitution. That’s the difference. The problem is most of our boys are armed with shotguns and deer rifles. The few like yourself who’ve arrived with ARs and anything equivalent are eager to fight back, there’s just not enough firepower to go around.”
“And once you find that firepower?”
“We move in and take Oneida back.”
“And what if the president really has issued a decree?” John asked. His question wasn’t exactly a trap, but he wanted to see what Marshall would say.
“Any president who dissolves Congress and suspends the Constitution no longer rules with the will of the people. That makes his laws illegal and unbinding.”
John smiled. “I was hoping you were gonna say that. So where are we supposed to get the weapons we need?”
Marshall returned the gesture. “Let me show you what you missed during your assault on Oneida.”
Chapter 16
Moss, Sullivan, Marshall and John set out in a single vehicle. They snaked along back roads at high speed. Moss’ skill behind the wheel was becoming clear and John was growing more and more certain the man had learned evasive driving techniques at some point in his life.
“I’ve got you pegged as either former law enforcement or military contractor,” John told him from the back seat.
Marshall nodded his approval. “Looks like he spotted you a mile away, Moss.”
Grinning through impossibly white teeth, Moss tapped the wheel. “I used to be a deputy in Oneida. Worked there up until the Chairman came in and started using the Second Amendment as a beer coaster.”
“The Second along with all the others, that is,” Marshall corrected him.
“So you left.”
“I took an oath to protect people, not gun them down like some Nazi brownshirt. So yeah, I left. Shaved my head into the fine display you see before you, packed my guns and fled.”
“But he didn’t get very far before we found him,” Marshall said.
Sullivan half turned in John’s direction. “It didn’t help his getaway much that he was on foot.”
“Well, not anymore,” Moss said, turning off Paint Rock Road and onto a narrow mountain trail. The truck bounced up and down over a patchwork of what might have passed for a road in India.
“You wanna tell me where we’re heading?” John asked Marshall who was sitting beside him.
“I guess it wouldn’t do much harm at this point. There’s a spot on Owens Ridge with a perfect vantage point over the city. It’s a spot we often use to keep tabs on things down there. We almost always have someone posted, recording patrols, the strength of the garrison. The lookout probably even saw you get your rear end shot off.”
The men in the truck burst into laughter.
“All my parts are still attached,” John told them, appreciating the dig at his expense. That was one of the aspects he missed from his years serving. Soldiers were experts at spotting each other’s flaws and revealing them to raucous laughter and high fives. Course, it was rarely meant in a bad way. Maybe it was just the way men let you know you were all right.
The truck came to a stop and all four got out. A narrow path that cut through the brush led to a fortified firing position. Draped around it was camo netting and additional branches and leaves. From Oneida, even a pair of high-powered binoculars would only see a row of shrubs.
A Patriot sat on a chair with a cigarette between his lips, peering through the scope of a Remington 700.
“This is Reese,” Marshall said. “Spent eight years with the French Foreign Legion.”
Reese glanced over and nodded.
“I’ve heard more than a few stories about the FFL. What was that like?” John asked.
“Hell,” Reese replied, pulling on his Marlboro. “We were the ultimate group of expendables. Doesn’t help that those Frog COs are a sadistic bunch.”
Marshall stood over him, surveying the view. “From here to the center of town’s about half a mile,” the commander told him. “If the wind conditions are right, someone with a steady hand could really do some damage down there.”
The faint glimmers of that monotone voice drifted up at them from below. John stopped, trying to make it out.
“That’s the public service announcement,” Moss spat. “‘Please be advised. We are in a state of martial law. By provision C19 of the local charter, the ownership or transport of firearms within the city limits of Oneida is strictly forbidden. An evening curfew of seven pm is mandatory for all residents. Failure to comply with regulations will result in switch punishment.’”
“Sounds like something out of 1984,” John whispered.
“What happened in 1984?” Moss asked.
Sometimes John forgot not everyone was his age. “A book by George Orwell, where he envisioned a world that looks and sounds very much like Oneida.”
Almost on queue, a group of armed men on horses rode through the middle of town. Even with the naked eye it was easy to see the defensive points they’d set up. The flat rooftops of buildings were reinforced with sandbags. There wasn’t a ring of them as much as they were spread all around.
“Defense in depth,” John said. After a quick glance, he saw the others weren’t catching on to what he was saying. “The Russians perfected the strategy during the Second World War. It was meant to wear down an attacker and cause mass casualties rather than stopping him at the gates, so to speak.”
The set of train tracks that ran through town led to a yard about half a mile away. Its location would eventually make Oneida an important supply junction for getting the country back on its feet—once the trains got moving again, that was.
“Over there,” Marshall said pointing to a row of white eighteen-wheelers approaching the city from the north. There were maybe three of them. John peered through the binoculars, noticing the black UN decal on the front and sides.
“At least one town’s getting resupplied,” he said.
“That’s the confusing part,” Moss told him. “We’ve managed to use the radio to make contact with a handful of neighboring towns, some twice as big as Oneida, and none of them have received any aid yet.”
“There’s FEMA and the UN for you,” Sullivan said.
“Maybe,” Marshall responded, “but we know this isn’t FEMA and I’m not sure it’s the UN either. And one of our contacts tells us some of these shipments may contain more than just bread,
purified water and medical supplies.”
“Weapons?” John asked, remembering the men he’d seen at the checkpoint outside Oneida.
Marshall nodded. “For the last few weeks we’ve been gathering intel and drawing up a battle plan to assault the town. This morning, Rodriguez received a report over the radio from our contact in Jefferson City, Missouri. Says there’s a convoy moving east along Interstate 64, headed for Oneida. A large one. And at least one of those trucks is rumored to be filled with all the firepower we’ve been waiting for.”
Chapter 17
After arriving back at camp, the men assembled in the command tent. Rodriguez was by the radio, waiting for them.
“The ETA on that large convoy is five hours and counting,” Rodriguez told them as they entered. “My contact tells me ten trucks in all.”
“We saw a handful roll into Oneida earlier today,” John said, “but they looked like rigs to me. Will this batch will be military vehicles?”
“Negative,” Rodriguez replied, tapping the pencil against his knee. “According to our man in Jefferson City, they should be the same UN type that’s been rolling in these last few days.”
Marshall drew in a deep breath, which pushed his belly out another few inches. “What do you make of that?” he asked Moss. In spite of Moss’ mohawk and quick wit, it seemed as though Marshall valued the younger man’s counsel.
“We’ve put enough money into the UN over the years,” Moss said. “It’s about time we got something out of it.”
Marshall was smiling as John turned to Rodriguez and asked: “Did your contact in Jefferson City say whether the convoy had an armed escort?”
Rodriguez shook his head. “He didn’t mention any escort. I’d get on and ask him again, but we only communicate once a day. Even with all our precautions, we can’t risk the wrong people zeroing in on our signal.”
“Best to assume an armed escort is shadowing them then,” John offered. A map of the area was on the table and he tapped a finger on a spot north of Oneida. “If you want my two cents, I suggest we create a roadblock here, just inside Daniel Boone National Forest along route 27. Lay down some spike strips in case they try and break through.”
Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) Page 6