“I can’t! I won’t live a day there.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Carter asked.
“No clue. Maybe he’s gone insane. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The commander returned to his microphone. “Sir, we’ll alert DHS and have them come pick you up.”
“No!” the man shouted. “They’ll kill me.”
“Sir, please get off the road and let us pass. We’ve been exposed to radioactive material and need to return to our base.”
“Were you at the plant?”
After a moment, the team leader replied. “Yes. That’s where we were exposed.”
The man took a step closer. “I can help. I used to work there.”
Nichols frowned. “Maybe he knows what happened.”
“State your name and position at the plant,” the leader demanded.
“I’m Brendon Davidson, chief of maintenance at Watts Bar!”
“Holy crap, Sergeant,” Nichols said. “He’ll definitely know what happened.”
“Mr. Davidson, please stay here. I’ll send a vehicle to pick you up within the hour.”
“Good! Just don’t tell DHS,” Davidson shouted back as he moved off the street and into the front yard of the farmhouse.
“We won’t. We’re just trying to find out what happened at the plant.”
“Hell, I can tell you exactly what happened!” Davidson shouted. “DHS happened. And I have the paperwork to prove it!”
An hour later A HUMVEE pulled up to the temporary rally point, carrying a civilian and a backpack full of documents. The Stryker had been already been decontaminated, a water truck dousing it for several minute to wash away any radioactive particles. The vehicle now sat on a trailer, and the crew was eating a hot MRE and drinking orange powder that had been added to a one liter bottle of water.
“You Davidson?” the team leader asked as the former plant maintenance manager climbed into the MRAP with the crew.
“Yes sir.” His eyes were focused on the food.
“Hungry?” Carter asked.
“That’s an understatement.”
“Must be if you’re salivating over this crap.”
Nichols grabbed an MRE and tossed it to the man. He tore into the packaging, ripping open the pouch of the box’s main entrée and shoveling in mouthfuls of a rubbery yellow substance studded with vegetables.
“Is that the omelet?” Carter asked with disgust. “You really should put some hot sauce on that.”
“I haven’t eaten anything for days,” Davidson said between bites. “This is great.”
“You really are starving.” Nichols. “Here, try a this one.”
Davidson finished the omelet and tore open a second box, this one a package of chili mac. He was about to bite into the entrée when Nichols took the bag of food and put it into its heating pouch.
Nichols handed him a package of marbled pound cake instead. “Chew on this until it’s heated.”
Carter mixed the enclosed lemon-lime electrolyte powder into a bottle of water and gave it to Davidson. Within a couple of minutes, the poor man had eaten the two entrees and was now contentedly chewing on a handful of Skittles that had been a part of his second meal. As he finished his candy, the MRAP rumbled to life and they began the trip back to Fort Knox.
“Well, tell me a story,” the team leader said. “And don’t leave out any details.”
The former Watts Barr plant director told the team about the failure of the old generators and the mysterious disappearance of the promised replacements from DHS, along with the death of his loyal crew at the hands of the raiders. When Davidson had finished, producing documents to back up his tale, the four CBRN technicians grimly looked at each other. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. DHS was culpable in the plant’s meltdown and therefore the radiation poisoning of the general’s grandkids.
Later that day, Davidson finished his debriefing at the commander’s office. Davidson had watched the general’s expression throughout his interrogation. Earlier, on their ride back to Fort Knox, the Hazmat team had filled him in on the details of the general’s family and their apparent exposure to the radioactive fallout. As Davidson’s story unfolded, General Lester’s face went from neutral to ashen and finally to a dull red.
“Thank you, Mr. Davidson. You’ve done your country a great service,” one of the aides said, indicating that the debriefing was over.
As the door closed, Davidson could hear a muted scream of anger coming from the commander’s office.
“God help whoever took those generators,” Davidson said under his breath.
The NCO escorting him slowed his stride, and in a grim voice said, “You have no God damned idea how true that is.”
***
“Traitors!” General Lester hissed. “Who would steal from a nuclear plant? What kind of sick bastard puts millions of people at risk?”
The general’s aide, Captain Kuris, held his tongue. He’d never seen the man so out of control as his commander ranted on about sedition and incompetence.
“That’s it. I’ve had enough. It’s time to take control.”
“Sir?” Kuris asked, barely hearing the general’s last words.
“Nothing, Captain.”
Lester began paging through the mountain of papers that Davidson had retrieved from the power plant.
“Here!” Lester said triumphantly. “Get these numbers out to every post we can contact. Do it now.”
Kuris took the sheet of paper with the serial numbers of the missing generators that had been assigned to the failed nuclear plant.
“Sir, what do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them to find those generators! When you know where they are, let me know right away. Is that so hard, Captain?”
Kuris studied his commanding officer. Lester’s voice was steady and firm, but his eyes were off, sort of glazed and dilated. Definitely not right.
“Yes sir,” Kuris said. “I’ll see to it.”
As Kuris left the general’s office, an uneasy feeling started to settle into his gut. General Lester had displayed no emotion since their diagnosis of radiation poisoning. But now, with a target on the table, someone could be held accountable. This was personal for his commander—they’d hurt his family, poisoned innocent children.
When Kuris got to his own office, he handed his aide the list and gave the soldier instructions to broadcast the serial numbers to every station and fort under their command.
“Sergeant, don’t put any more information into that memo. Just the numbers and where to report.”
“Understood, sir.”
Kuris didn’t want any rumors or innuendos associated with the search, nothing to warn the potential perpetrator. If this was personal for the general, it would be personal for all the men under Lester’s command. They all felt his pain, even though St. Bart never showed his emotions. Never that is, until just a few moments ago, when Kuris saw the hurt in the man’s eyes. It seemed that Lester felt emotions after all, and that pissed Kuris off more than anyone could ever know.
CHAPTER 20
ORLANDO, FL
“We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us.”
— Ken Levine
SEVERAL WEEKS AFTER DAVIDSON’S RESCUE, Drosky rolled out of bed, a low murmur of protest coming from under the sheets.
“It’s not even dawn,” Natasha groaned, the bedspread dropping back as she reached out to reveal her female curves. “Come back here.”
Drosky hesitated for a moment. His first impulse was to follow her seductive voice back to bed, but he’d promised to meet Beth and Mike early at the mess hall.
“Babe, I’ve got to go. But I’ll be back tonight.”
“You could be a little late,” she whispered sensually.
Drosky went to her side of the bed and sat down. Natasha rolled over and brought her left arm around his waist, pulling him against her body.
“Tonight. Can you keep those thought
s till then?” John softly asked.
“All day, mister. I’ll be thinking of you all day.”
Drosky leaned over and kissed his girlfriend. She leaned up into him, pressing her body through the sheets, practically begging him to give in to her desires.
He pulled away and smiled. “I’ll be thinking of you too.”
Drosky hurriedly dressed and left their quarters, jogging toward the mess hall. Beth and Mike were already there.
***
“Well well,” Mike deadpanned. “Look who managed to show up.”
“I’m exactly on time,” Drosky said.
“No thanks to a certain dark-haired woman who will remain nameless.”
“She’s hard to leave,” he admitted with a grin, sitting down with his plate of eggs.
Beth ignored the male banter, concentrating on her own breakfast and reading some papers. When she had been reassigned to guard Bedford’s wife, she had been none too pleased about it. But a friendship was blossoming between the two women. Beth provided Tanya with another woman with whom she could confide—and now Tanya was providing Beth with stolen memos and other secrets.
“What do you have?” Drosky asked her, ignoring Mike’s further attempts to goad him about his private life.
“Deployment schedule,” Beth replied. “Timetable and strengths.”
It was a bit risky meeting in DHS headquarters’ mess hall, but at 0530, they were the only people in the dining area other than the kitchen staff. John figured that the best place to exchange secrets was in the open and at a place where they normally would meet anyway. They were known friends and ate breakfast together every day. It would be a lot more suspicious if they got together at a more secluded spot, and it wasn’t every day that they exchanged information.
“Cyn’s gonna like this.” Mike said, looking at the spreadsheet.
“Seems Tanya’s becoming quite the fountain of information,” Drosky added, looking at another page from the stack that contained more details of the upcoming deployment.
Cynthia Terrones had been contacted by a growing opposition to the new government. Her years in the Marines and time spent doing security work for the theme parks gave her an interesting and varied list of associates. One of them reached out to her a two months ago, and she’d become part of that group of patriots. Four weeks ago, she brought Mike on board, who in turn brought in Drosky and Beth.
Now Beth’s relationship with Bedford’s wife was paying dividends because she had access to her husband’s private files. In just a few short weeks, they had been overwhelmed by the amount and quality of the information Tanya had stolen. It was fitting that the woman Bedford had turned into his personal plaything was now stabbing him in the back.
The results of their efforts had been both immediate and remarkable. Two convoys of DHS agents had been ambushed by a growing rebel force, resulting in the loss of nearly a hundred men and truckloads of supplies, including small arms, explosives and anti-material weapons. Bedford had been livid after hearing of the second ambush, convinced that the civilians still left in the city were responsible, and not an organized resistance.
“I’ll get these to Cyn,” Mike said as he slid the papers into his messenger bag. “They’ll be in our friend’s hands by tonight.”
None of them knew who Cynthia was communicating with, and if OPSEC was being followed, she likely didn’t know who she was interfacing with either.
Someday this will make a great story, Drosky thought. Too bad I can’t keep notes.
Later that morning, Drosky was in Bedford’s office, reviewing the day’s agenda.
“I’ll need another vehicle,” he said as he glanced at the day’s calendar. “The trip to the airport is getting more problematic. I’ll need to add two more vehicles for security.”
“That’s fine,” the director said absently.
“Sir, I’ll need to pull them from the city. Our fleet of up-armored HUMVEEs is dangerously low since the two ambushes. Do you have any recommendations on which units we should re-task?”
Bedford sat silently for a moment, then slammed his fist onto the table. “Damn it! I’m tired of fighting these ungrateful bastards.”
He stood up and began pacing the floor in front of his desk. Drosky sat calmly, a blank expression on his face. It was good to see the stress their efforts were causing DHS. Drosky thought about the spreadsheets he had seen that morning and suppressed a grin. More agents were going to die, and that was just fine with him. Almost to a man, the agents that stayed with DHS were cowards, exchanging their souls for air conditioning and a hot meal. His efforts to stop the new government had allowed him to sleep well once again.
Bedford stopped his pacing, his expression suddenly changing from anger to calm.
“Get me Nixon,” Bedford commanded. “Now.”
“What for, sir?”
“Not your concern,” Bedford replied with a nasty smile. “Just get him for me.”
Drosky sent one of his agents to get the evil man. Ever since he had witnessed Travis Nixon shoot an unarmed father and burn two families this past winter, he had been searching for an opportunity to pay the bastard back. But Nixon and Drosky’s paths hadn’t crossed since. Nixon had been mostly absent since then, sometimes not showing up at the tower apartment for weeks on end. Finally, after a few months without running into him, Drosky’s intense anger had subsided into a slow, simmering burn. Revenge and retribution would come soon enough, but not at the expense of ruining his budding career as a spy. Taking down Nixon was now secondary to providing the resistance with information.
A half an hour later, Nixon smugly strode into Bedford’s office.
“You’re dismissed,” Bedford said to Drosky.
He reluctantly closed the director’s door behind him and stood nearby. There was nothing he could do to overhear their conversation, and he vowed to somehow rectify that problem. Perhaps a hidden mic? he thought as Bedford and Nixon conspired in the room just a few feet away.
Behind the closed door, the director greeted Nixon warmly. “Travis!” Bedford said, clapping him on the shoulder. “How was your assignment?”
Nixon had been in Miami, where his men had crushed pockets of resistance on the island of Key Biscayne. The waterfront mansions were going to be prized pieces of real estate when the dust settled, and Bedford was bound and determined to be the owner of those lots. Nixon had performed with increasing efficiency as he learned what would drive the remaining groups of non-compliant citizens into the DHS camps.
“It’s been a ton of fun,” Nixon said.
Bedford let out a deep belly laugh, his stomach flab rippling up and down through his too tight white button-down shirt. It was late spring, and even with the air conditioning, the man was sweating through his clothes.
“I brought you here to solve another problem. This one is local.”
“I thought we had this town under control?” Nixon asked, taking a seat across from the director’s desk.
“We did, but things are starting to turn in the wrong direction.”
Bedford handed Nixon a folder. The agent opened began reviewing the papers within. Settling himself in his chair with an audible grunt, Bedford opened his own folder and turned to the first page.
“On page one, you can see the damage we’ve suffered since the beginning of the month.”
Nixon whistled as he reviewed the battle damage report. “A hundred and six dead?”
“Actually, it’s up to one hundred thirteen. Seven of the critically wounded died since that report.”
“And the material. Was that destroyed or captured?”
“Captured. Including over a dozen AT4s”
“Jesus,” Nixon said. “That can do some damage.”
“Exactly. That’s why I need your men to get this under control right now. I can’t have these ungrateful morons running around with shoulder rockets, blowing up my MRAPs and HUMVEEs.”
“It’s solvable. I just need a few weeks to weed out th
e rats.”
“Whatever you need, it’s yours.” Bedford replied, handing the man a laminated card. “This is your ‘God Card.’ It will get you anything you want.”
Nixon looked at the piece of plastic. It was roughly the size of a credit card, but it was so much better. Bedford’s signature was on the bottom, and it authorized the holder to have full access to whatever he would need. With a smile, he put it in his shirt pocket.
“I’ll be out there in the morning.” Nixon said. He was already planning where to move his team and their entourage of female companions. The men had collected a virtual harem that he needed to keep housed and fed. This card would allow him to do just that.
“Any suggestions where we can base the men?” Nixon asked.
“Grand Cypress,” Bedford immediately replied. “I’ve got a gas station out there, plenty of rooms for you and your boys, as well as a twenty-four-hour restaurant on site. There’s even a spa for some of your tagalong guests.”
Nixon’s surprised look pleased Bedford. The man needed to know that Bedford was on top of everything around him, including the lifestyles and predilections of his agents.
“Oh don’t be surprised, Travis. I know about the girls.”
“And you don’t have a problem with that?” Nixon asked.
“Problem? I’m looking forward to a visit.”
“They’re all yours, sir. Any girl you want.”
“You mean girls, don’t you?” Bedford deadpanned.
Both men laughed as Nixon rose to leave.
“You’re my kind of boss, sir.” Nixon said, shaking the director’s hand.
“And you’re my kind of soldier.”
“Thank you, sir.” Nixon saluted.
“Now get out of here and fix my problem,” Bedford said as he returned the agent’s salute.
Nixon exchanged a menacing glance with John Drosky as he strode past. Leaving Drosky behind to guard Bedford’s door gave Nixon a level of satisfaction that he could barely contain. Since their days at the Orlando Police Department together, Nixon had held a grudge against him. Drosky had been a Marine, serving tours in Iraq, while Nixon had washed out after his three-year term had expired and been told not to re-enlist. Drosky reminded Nixon of the injustices that the military had heaped on him. And now Drosky was nothing more than a glorified guard while he was the Bedford’s counter-insurgency man.
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 18