Seeing their confusion, Bragg explained.
“Say we spoke at 2237—and make sure you use military time, boys. Ain’t no such thing as p.m. in the military. So we speak at 2237, then the next window will be the next even hour. Thirty-seven plus twenty-two equals fifty-nine minutes. That way, anyone trying to listen in won’t be able to sit on the thirty-seventh minute after the hour. We’d start listening at 00:59. Y’all got that?”
“Makes sense,” Grafton said with some hesitation.
“I get it,” Kramer said. “So if we speak a third time, let’s say the next day at 1859, then the next window would be at 2017 hours. Take fifty-nine plus eighteen, and that’s seventeen after the hour, since fifty-nine plus one goes back to the top of the hour, plus seventeen more.”
Bragg slapped his thigh. “Hot damn! Ya would a made an alright officer, Doc!”
Grafton’s eyes lit up with recognition as he finally grasped the way that they could set up a new time without broadcasting it over the open HAM wavelengths. Vernon Bragg was a wily old coot, and Grafton was glad the man had been willing to help.
“Then it’s settled,” Kramer said. “We’ll begin tomorrow night.”
Bragg reached into his duffle once again and brought out a printed piece of paper. Handing it to Grafton, he said, “This is directions on makinz an antenna for the Hytera. Follow the directions exactly on the lengths of copper wire. Set it up high, on a roof or in a tree. Ya should get forty or so miles out with it. If you’re off by more than an inch, y’all gonna be boostin’ the signal on a frequency we ain’t usin’.”
“Copy that, Sergeant. I’m impressed.” Kramer swept his hand to indicate the cavernous space. “How come you have all this equipment? You seem to have multiple…well, everything.”
“Doc, you should know. Two is one, and one is none. Simple as that. Ain’t no surprise when somethin’ don’t work. It’s just plain ignorant to expect that things ain’t gonna fail.”
“I’m glad you did,” Kramer said.
“Time to go” Bragg said, shuffling toward the single door. “Don’t want them satellites to wonderin’ what y’all are doin’ here.”
Bragg ushered Kramer and Grafton outside and with a wave and closed the door behind them.
“Always an interesting place to visit,” Grafton said as he pocketed the watch and held up the portable HAM radio.
CHAPTER 7
SMYRNA, TN
278TH TENNESSEE ARMY NATIONAL GUARD
“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”
— William Blake
AS BRAGG MADE HIS HAM radio call to warn Claire Kramer, Staff Sergeant Kevin Thomas Dixon strode towards a three-story brick building, ignoring the frigid early spring gusts battering his already wind-burned face. He spat a silent curse, thinking of the wasted months he had spent trying to make his Apache gunships fly again.
The AH-64 helicopter was the most advance attack helicopter on the planet. A monster in battle, it could carry up to sixteen radar-assisted Hellfire anti-tank or seventy-six unguided Hydra-70 missiles. The final talon on the flying tank’s lethal claw was the 30mm cannon that had a “shoot where I look” aiming system. The cannon was controlled by a monocular worn by the helicopter’s weapons system operator, which rotated and swiveled the barrel to wherever the operator was looking. While the pilot sat in the rear elevated seat of the craft, the co-pilot and gunner sat in the front of the Apache and operated the helicopter’s weapons systems. The Apache could hunt and strike in any weather condition you threw at it. The twenty-million-dollar aircraft was the tip of the sword in the 278th Tennessee Armored National Guard’s attack plan. The helicopters normally would be out in front of the advancing tank battalion, killing as many of the enemy’s armored vehicles and tanks as it could find, softening up the enemy’s line of defense for the hammer-like punch of Tennessee Cavalry’s M1A1 Abrams tanks.
Unfortunately, after the EMP fried most of its computers, their Apaches were now worthless lumps of metal.
As a crew chief for the Tennessee National Guard, Dixon was tasked with fixing as many of these warfighting machines as he could. So far, months into what the civilians had begun to call “the darkness,” he hadn’t revived a single aircraft. Stripping the machines down to their basic flying frame and eliminating as many computer controllers as he could had not solved the issue. After multiple scans, he had found several small computers that were unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse. He had stripped the functional computers, sensors, relays and switches from the all the helicopters and put them into a single machine. The result was an Apache with a computer system that turned on…but only presented him with multiple emergency warning lights. Not a single sound from the engine. Not even a listless turn from its blades.
Finally, he had to concede that without the proper computer diagnostic system and more spare parts, the job was impossible. As he strode into the base commanding officer’s building, the scowl on Crew Chief Dixon’s face told the story of a man who didn’t like to fail.
Colonel Preston Cooper was in charge of the Air National Guard at the Nashville Airport, but his C130 transport aircraft were grounded for the same reason as Dixon’s Apache gunships. None of their electronics worked. The colonel had transferred his headquarters to Smyrna primarily because of the extensive on-base housing available for his men and women, along with their families. Also, a number of functional HUMVEE and tractor trailers used to haul the Tennessee Cavalry’s M1A1 Abrams tanks were stationed at this base. Minimal computer components were installed in the vehicles, so the HUMVEEs and “toy haulers” (as they affectionately called truck-tractors) were unaffected by the electric pulse that had fried most of the country’s electronics. Presently, only the HUMVEEs were being used. They’d been sent out to the various armories scattered around the state in an attempt to bring in any Guardsmen that were trying to report for duty.
Located about fifteen miles south of the Nashville airport, the Smyrna National Guard headquarters put Cooper’s people out of a high-density population area. Surrounded by an eight-foot chain-linked fence topped with concertina wire, Cooper felt he could operate with some level of safety and free up his soldiers for tasks other than security.
Just as importantly, he could get away from the Feds and the DHS clowns who had control of the Nashville airport. Watching the erratic and wasteful conduct by Homeland filled the native Tennessean with a loathing that was hard to swallow. Further, being put under the command of Deputy Associate Administrator McCain was way over the line. While true that the military was controlled by civilian leadership, it was unheard of for civilian DHS administrators to have direct control in a military chain of command.
The friction between Cooper and McCain had become unbearable when the colonel challenged a number of McCain’s nonsensical orders. As a result of the breakdown in confidence between the Guard and DHS, McCain had begun to inflict small, punitive punishments on the Guardsmen. As far as the Homeland administrator was concerned, Cooper and his men had nothing to offer other than bodies that needed to be fed and watered. In the end, it had been a simple thing to get Cooper and his men transferred to Smyrna, where the non-functional Apaches were stationed.
“The colonel will see you now,” the new E-2 aid said to the waiting Sergeant Dixon.
Dixon stood up and straightened his uniform as he approached the commander’s office door. Giving the wood a single, sharp rap, he opened the door and strode purposefully into the room. Stopping three paces in front of the seated commander’s metal desk, he stood at attention with his heels together and feet flared at forty-five. Dixon’s eyes were fixed at the wall above the colonel’s head. Snapping a crisp salute, Dixon barked out, “Sir! Staff Sergeant Dixon reporting, sir!”
The colonel absently returned the sergeant’s salute and cleared a space on his cluttered desk. “At ease,” Cooper said.
Dixon moved to parade rest, his hands crossed behind his back and his feet shoulder’s width a
part. Copper noticed Dixon’s stiff demeanor and knew, before his sergeant even opened his mouth, that he had failed to nurse any of his Apache gunships back to flying form.
“Relax,” Cooper said. “I know.”
Dixon dropped his gaze, anger and pain reflected in his eyes.
“Sir, I tried everything.”
“I don’t doubt it, K.T.”
“My Herks,” Cooper continued, using the nickname for his Hercules C-130 transport aircraft, “were as dead as doornails, and they have half the computers you deal with. I just hoped that you could cobble enough unaffected parts together to make one or two work.”
Cooper’s soft words did little to mollify the hard-driven crew chief. The colonel stood up and came around his desk.
“Sit down, K.T. Let’s talk.”
The two sat down in the chairs that faced the colonel’s desk. They were now speaking as fellow warriors, not as commander to subordinate.
“Things are happening that I’m not too pleased with.” Cooper began. “I’ve been in touch with some of my men who stayed behind in Nashville and it’s a real Charlie Foxtrot. DHS has no clue what they are doing.”
“How so?” Dixon asked. “I haven’t seen daylight in weeks.”
“I know, and I’ve noticed how much you put into trying to make our Apaches work. And more importantly, how close you are to the men. So I have to tell you that we might be evicted by DHS. They want this airport and its land to create a relocation camp.”
“WHAT?” Dixon shouted, the weeks of hard work and lack of sleep catching up to him. “Sorry sir,” he murmured as he caught himself. “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that I’ve been juggling my men’s problems and with all the time under the cowling, I just…”
“Apology accepted.” Cooper said. “You’re close with your men while I sit here in this ivory tower,” Cooper said with a smile, his hand waving towards the cream plaster walls of his office. “I want to know what’s going on with you and your families. I know you’re all safe, that’s why I moved us here. But I can only imagine your fears and frustrations. Tell me, what can I do for you and your people?”
“I don’t know if I can answer you right now,” Dixon said. “I wasn’t prepared to discuss that. But I can say that most everyone has a missing relative or two they’re worried about. That’s their number one concern. But they know there’s nothing more that can be done about that.”
“Are you still sending out teams to check on the remote armories?” Cooper asked.
“Not anymore. After we were skunked for two weeks in a row, I didn’t see a need to keep going back. If they were going to report, it would have been in the first month or two.”
“I haven’t seen our latest roster,” Cooper said. “But last time I looked we had almost thirty-eight percent reporting. That’s pretty good. In fact, the only decent intelligence I got from Agent McCain was that our National Guard regiment was above the Army’s own rate of retention. After the EMP, the Army has less than a thirty percent effective force because of desertion and dereliction of duty.”
Dixon, a proud man from Tennessee, smiled for the first time in days. “Thirty-eight percent. Not bad.”
“I’d expect nothing less from our state or my soldiers.” Cooper said. “I’m thinking of relocating to Fort Campbell. I’ve already sent some men ahead and they’ve got the room and supplies for us.”
“I can speak for the men,” Dixon said. “They’ll follow wherever you go.”
Cooper’s shoulders relaxed. He got up from the chair and opened a closet door that hid a refrigerator. He returned with a couple of cold beers. Handing one to Dixon they both twisted off the cap. The colonel gave the bottle a quick tip towards his sergeant, and they both pulled a long draw from the chilled glass bottles.
“Nothing better,” Dixon said approvingly.
A knock on the door interrupted the two men, and Cooper called for the person to enter. A young boy, perhaps six years old, galloped into the room. His right leg was bracketed by a metal brace surrounding a plaster cast that ran from ankle to mid-thigh. The child had a big smile on his face as he flung himself into the colonel’s lap. Colonel Cooper’s grandson, who had Down’s syndrome, was the most loving person Dixon had ever met.
“Hi, Papa!” the little boy squealed.
“Marky!” A voice yelled from the outer office.
The boy’s father, a lieutenant in the guard’s “Outrider” engineering squad followed behind the lad. Jeb Cooper led the regiment’s engineers, who paved the way for the 278th’s tanks. Clearing mines and creating roads were often required to go from point A to point B, and that was the job of the regimental engineers. Jeb called himself a glorified bus driver, but his men often found themselves under enemy fire or beset by landmines designed to kill man and machine alike. They were soldiers that fought with a shovel as well as a gun.
“Marky,” the father admonished the boy. “That’s not the way we report to our commanding officer.”
“But he’s my papa,” Marky replied as he hugged the old colonel.
“It’s alright, Jeb,” Colonel Cooper said to his son. “This is the first time I’ve been happy all day.”
“That’s because I’m the happy boy,” Marky said as he leaned back into his grandfather’s chest.
Jeb, seeing his father relaxed and smiling for the first time in a while, relented as the colonel let his grandson examine the contents of his desk’s drawers.
“Glad you’re here,” Jeb said to Dixon as they shook hands. “I heard about the Apaches. We sure could have used them, but I never thought you had a chance getting any of them to fly.”
“Thanks L.T.” Dixon said. “If anyone would get it, I knew you would. At least your vehicles survived the blast.”
“Minimal computers, and we had a few backup parts that were shielded in their storage sheds. Pure luck.”
A few moments later, the colonel’s daughter-in-law glided into the room.
“Hi, Nan,” Colonel Cooper said. “Come for your little monster?”
“I’m NOT a monster!”
“You’re just like Sullivan,” the colonel said to his grandson, referencing the boy’s favorite movie, Monsters, Inc.
“Yeah! I’m Sullivan,” Marky crowd as he jumped out of his grandfather’s lap.
“What happened to your leg, Marky?” Dixon asked as the boy staggered into his mother’s arms.
“I fell,” he said.
“A little more than fell,” Nan Cooper explained. “A greenstick fracture of his tibia and he tore up some ligaments in his knee.”
“He’ll mend soon enough,” Jeb said. “Kids heal quick.”
As Nan bent over and picked up the young boy, Dixon noticed the bump in her belly.
“What happened to you?” Dixon asked with a smile.
“Talk to your friend here.” She beamed, pointing to her husband. “He’s what happened.”
“Almost thirty weeks along,” Jeb said. “Marky’s having a baby sister.”
“Yay!” Marky said. “Her name is going to be Boo.”
“Boo?” Dixon asked.
The colonel laughed. “Also from Monsters, Inc.”
“Well, that might be her nickname. But we haven’t decided on her real name yet,” Nan replied, brushing her son’s hair from his eyes.
“But that is her name,” Marky complained.
“You can call her Boo,” Nan said. The boy gave a satisfied sigh as his mother led him out of the room. “See you boys at dinner?”
“Seventeen thirty!” Jeb replied with a smile.
After Nan and Marky walked out, Dixon watched the other two men’s faces. It was plain as day that their world revolved around those two—soon to be three. Dixon had no doubt that either man would step in front of a train to protect Nan and Marky. It made Dixon a bit sad, knowing that he didn’t have that kind of family to go home to. It had just never happened for him, but he was happy for the Coopers. In a way, he felt like a part of their fami
ly as well. That’s just the way Colonel Cooper made you feel when you served under him. After all, the Tennessee Cavalry was all volunteer, and the men of the 278th were proud to be a member of the group that began in the Revolutionary war, landed at Normandy during World War II, fought under General Patton and conquered the deserts of Iraq in both the early 90’s and Operation Iraqi Freedom just a few years past. For almost two hundred and fifty years, the men of Tennessee have voluntarily served their country, and that bond made them all brothers and sisters in Dixon’s mind. Colonel Cooper and his clan were a part of that brotherhood. He was family.
“I have some sensitive information,” Jeb Cooper began once his wife and son were out of earshot.
“Go ahead,” the colonel said. “The sergeant’s been with us for over a decade. He’s clear.”
“I’ve been getting some, how can I say it, disturbing reports from my Comspecs. I’m having a hard time believing what they’re telling me.”
“Sit,” the colonel commanded. Dixon and Lieutenant Cooper sat in the two chairs facing the him.
“Sir,” Jeb continued, “there are multiple reports that civilians are being herded into relocation camps and of families being separated.”
“Have you confirmed this?” The colonel asked, his brow creased with deep wrinkles.
“To some degree,” his son replied. “I sent a squad to a camp that DHS set up outside of Memphis. A couple of my soldiers had family there. They had to threaten to fire on the compound with their Ma Deuce if DHS didn’t produce their people to bring back with them. The stories I heard from those that were rescued are nothing if not abhorrent.”
The colonel’s face flushed as his anger percolated. Family was the most important thing in the world, and the government had no right to get in the way of that.
“A couple of families talked about a forced farm labor camp in Fayette County,” Jeb continued. “And my men found a facility guarded by DHS about forty miles from Memphis. They couldn’t get access to the camp. There was a significant response from the camp to our presence, including several MRAPs and up-armored HUMVEEs. From a distance, our men could see almost a thousand people manually working in the fields. I just debriefed our soldiers and their families, and they all told the same story. I’m recommending that we send a recon team over there to verify the situation.”
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 8