by Nathan Combs
Wade’s shoulders slumped. “What?”
“I feel guilty even mentioning this. The weather’s about to change dramatically.” He stopped talking and looked around the table.
“Just spit it out, Stu.”
“Sorry, Wade. Tyler said there was heavy frost in Mobile. That’s unheard of this time of the year. There’s a massive cold front dropping south. Extremely hot, moist air is blowing in off the Atlantic. When those two air masses collide, there’s going to be some really nasty weather.”
“Where will they intersect?”
“I don’t know. I flunked meteorology.”
Stu’s snarky comment relieved some of the tension, and Wade grinned. “Take a guess, Stu.”
Stuart shook his head and exhaled loudly. “Maybe around Orlando.”
The convoy made two unscheduled stops to bury four civilians and two soldiers before they reached Perry, Florida.
Tyler passed that on to Wade, then said, “FYI, the weather here is not lookin’ good. There’re nasty black clouds to the south. It’s colder than hell too. I’ll call back as soon as I find out what highway they’re taking.”
Fifteen minutes later, the invasion force headed south on US-27, and Wade’s sat phone rang.
“They’re taking 27 to Orlando. Should I execute the harassment phase?”
“Hold off, Ty. Stu says massive cold and warm fronts are set to collide somewhere around Orlando. If it’s as bad as he thinks, you won’t be able to shoot. Keep me posted.”
The impending storm was on the horizon and because hostilities were imminent, Wade, Randal, Bill, and Stuart rarely left the command center, and because Maggie stayed at the medical facility 24/7, Sara took Adam home with her. Probably knowing the men would forget to eat, Sara sent fruit and sandwiches back with Adam; they were wolfed down immediately. Wade was also thankful when she arrived soon after with a cot. Bill, however, wanted to know why she’d wasted her time.
Sara replied, “Well, I had the cot brought in, in case one of you comes to your senses and realizes you can’t be at your best without sleep. We need all of you at your best, so use it. Any other questions, Bill?”
Four hours later, Tyler called. “They stopped just north of Orlando. It’s starting to rain and the winds are picking up. The sky’s nasty with a capital N. This storm’s gonna be a real bitch.”
Wade said, “Find shelter and ride it out, Ty. They’re not going anywhere until it passes.” He turned to Stu. “Looks like we bought some extra time. How bad will it be here?”
“We’ll get wind and rain, but it shouldn’t be anything like what they’re going to experience.”
The door opened, and Maggie entered. She gave Wade a hug and kissed his cheek.
His arm still around her waist, Wade said, “Anything new, Mags?”
“No. Nothing’s changed. No new cases, but then it’s only been a few hours.”
Wade nodded, then walked to the wall map and stood to stare at it. Turning toward Bill, he said, “When the storm subsides, take two mortar teams and head for Orlando. Let’s give them something to think about. Per Tyler, the tankers are in the middle of the civilian vehicles. Drop a few rounds on the troop transports. Hit and run. I’ll have the sniper teams pick at their rear and target any commanders that expose themselves.”
Foster was stunned by the ferocity of the storm. The sound of the hail assailing his Stryker was deafening, and he momentarily pitied the civilians sitting in their vehicles. Then a vision of Shelton cringing in his F-150 flashed through his mind, and he smirked.
For the first time since the collapse, Shelton felt fear. The relentless wind wormed its way under the truck, lifting one side a foot off the ground. He was sure the vehicle would be blown into the ditch, and a vision of the pickup upside down in several feet of water while he lay unconscious rummaged through his mind. He panicked and attempted to open the door, but the pressure of the wind was too intense, and it wouldn’t budge.
It was just after five o’clock but as dark as midnight. The brilliance of the constant lightening was staggeringly gaudy. Nonstop thunder shook the truck, causing it to vibrate and hum. The rain, beating against the body and glass, buzzed like a swarm of bees, and occasional golf ball-sized hail threatened to break the windshield and expose him to the elements.
He whimpered.
Something warm and wet ran down his leg, and he whined, “Please, God. Don’t let me die here like this.”
The intensity of the storm was epic, but after thirty minutes, the winds decreased, and an hour later, it regressed to a typical Florida thunderstorm. The worst was over and not long after, the moon peeked out, providing enough light to see that the convoy was in a massive new lake a foot deep.
Shelton called Foster and asked for damage assessment.
“Not sure, sir. I don’t have a boat handy.”
“You can dispense with the smart-ass comments, General. How long are we gonna have to sit here?”
“We can’t see the highway, Mr. Shelton. As soon as the water recedes, we’ll get underway.”
“And stop with the nautical terms too.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ll keep you posted.”
Twelve hours later, a cold but cloudless dawn greeted the convoy as they entered the Florida Turnpike at Kissimmee. With a two-mile view from the Highway 530 overpass, Bill targeted a section of the turnpike at the edge of his vision and waited. Within minutes, a Texas Nation scout vehicle rolled into view, followed by the armored portion of the convoy. He waited until the troop transports hit his marker, then fired eight quick shots from the mortars, packed up, and headed south.
Two troop trucks took direct hits from the high explosive rounds, and two others were disabled. White-hot shrapnel whistled through the canvas tops of two more and killed the driver of another.
The Bradleys and Strykers peeled out of the convoy and deployed on the flanks, their turrets swiveling, searching for targets. Men bailed out of the transport trucks and went prone in the ditch.
Foster had returned his command to the Bradley, which was now directly behind the lead Stryker. He opened the top hatch and glassed the immediate area but knew he’d find nothing. He wasn’t able to ascertain where the rounds had come from and exited the vehicle to take stock.
Twenty-nine of his men were dead or out of commission, and he was down four trucks. He sent the wounded to the doc, left a team to bury the dead, sent the scout vehicle ahead, and continued south.
Bill took a moment to admire his work, then retreated to the Canoe Creek Service Plaza where the scenario was repeated. Two more trucks lost and nineteen more men out of action.
Shelton was livid. “Dammit, General. We won’t have any men left at this rate. Do something.”
For once, Foster agreed with Shelton. The only sensible thing he could do was send the scout vehicle two miles ahead with a drone that could scan an additional five miles. The convoy would not advance until the scout gave an all clear, but that was going to eat up a lot of time.
Bill reset on the US-441 overpass immediately north of Yeehaw Junction and waited for the convoy to come into range. His sat phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, fat boy.”
Bill’s face lit up. “What’s up, Squaw Man? Are you still playin’ Crazy Horse?”
“Your mom used to do Crazy Horse for peyote.”
“Ha, ha. What’s up?”
“Not much. Thought I’d let you know they sent a scout ahead and deployed a drone, so if you’re still sittin’ on an overpass, you might wanna get your worthless ass off it.”
Bill laughed. “No shit, huh? Okay, we’ll move. Where are you?”
“About 500 yards to their rear. Got three sniper teams with me. We’re gonna show ’em what real shootin’ looks like.”
Bill grinned. “Rock ’n’ roll, Geronimo. Good to hav
e you back.”
At 11:45 a.m., the convoy arrived in Yeehaw Junction, down six transport trucks and fifty-one troops courtesy of Bill, and thirteen troops by way of Tyler and his snipers. After exiting the turnpike, the Texas Nation convoy sat idling in the southbound lane of US-441.
Shelton refused to move his pickup from the protective cocoon the civilian vehicles formed, and he ordered Foster to come back to him.
When the Bradley pulled alongside, Shelton rolled down the window and said, “Is the Gulf Force ready?”
Standing up through the top hatch, Foster touched his ears, shook his head, and yelled, “Can’t hear you, sir.”
Shelton muttered something that was lost to the wind and motioned Foster to get off the Bradley. “I asked you if the Gulf Force was ready.”
Foster replied, “Yes, sir. I’m moving the designated civilian vehicles into the armored column now. We should be good to go in twenty minutes.”
“We’re thirty miles from Okeechobee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve sat around with our thumbs up our asses long enough. When we reach Okeechobee, it will be”—he looked at his watch—“twelve-thirty?”
“Give or take.”
“Good. As soon as we get there, start the attack.”
Tyler called Wade, who put him on speaker. “They’re southbound on 441 in two columns. Civilians are embedded.”
Randal walked to the wall map. “I still think they’ll split when they hit Okeechobee.” He pointed to the map. “One column will likely go south on 78, the other west on 70, then south on 27. That would force us to fight on two fronts.”
Wade asked, “Do we have enough C-4 left to blow the Highway 78 bridge in Okeechobee?”
“We have two blocks left.”
Wade studied the map. “If we take out that bridge, we’d force the 78 column to backtrack and go around the lake through Pahokee and then through Clewiston. We could funnel them right into Bill. That would allow us to concentrate on the highway 27 forces. Blowing that bridge buys us at least three hours and forces them to change their battle plan. We have to beat them to that bridge.”
Randal called Horst. “Move your men to the intersection of 27 and 70 and coordinate with Cole. Enemy armor will be headed there from Okeechobee. Looks like ten Strykers, two Bradleys, at least twenty transport trucks, and dozens of pickups with troops. Civilians are embedded. I’m calling Cole now.”
“Roger.”
While Randal called Cole, Wade called Bill and said, “A column is southbound on Highway 78. I have to blow the drawbridge in Okeechobee before they get there. We’re not going to expose the Apache unless necessary, so I’m driving. When the bridge is out, they’ll be forced east around the lake and will have to come through you.”
Former Master Sergeant Ray Wilcox had spent twenty-two years of his adult life in the United States Army. Like a lot of military men who’d survived the apocalypse, Wilcox had been on leave from the 82nd Airborne when the shit hit the fan. He was a crusty, grumpy, decorated veteran of both the Iraq and Afghan wars.
Wilcox thought Shelton was a despicable little douchebag. He hadn’t particularly liked Kirilov either, but he’d respected the man’s military expertise. And his battle plan for Moore Haven was spot on.
Tasked by Foster to lead the Gulf invasion force, Wilcox unloaded his armor and birds at the Coast Guard station in Fort Myers and cautiously advanced to the Cotton Strip Air Park a few miles east of Labelle, where he ordered them silent.
He studied the maps of Moore Haven and environs and decided that Kirilov had been right. The defenders weren’t likely to conceive of a force crossing the Gulf and approaching from the west, so the western approaches would be lightly defended, if at all. However, he didn’t believe any commander worth his salt would totally ignore the western sector, and since Kirilov insisted the Floridians were competent, he assumed there was a token force, or at least a spotter, in Labelle. The town was well positioned. The land was open and flat for miles in every direction.
He looked at the sat map again and pursed his lips. He had no choice. He had to go through Labelle, and he had to accomplish that without being made.
A cloudless, bluebird sky met his upward gaze. Not a hint of wind. It was so quiet his breathing was loud in his ears. Even at idle, the noise from his armor would be heard miles away. He debated the merits of sending up a drone, but assuming someone was watching, any competent spotter would see it in the empty sky. They’d also hear and/or observe the Little Bird.
Dammit! He had to locate the spotter.
After contemplating his options, which included sending scouts to find the spotter, he came to the conclusion that he didn’t have the time or the resources.
Fuck!
It was twenty-five miles from Labelle to Moore Haven. He decided when the strike order was issued, he’d blitzkrieg through Labelle and hit Moore Haven with the birds before they could respond.
The synapses in Shelton’s brain didn’t communicate effectively with the neurons that allowed for rational thought processes; therefore, his faulty logic ricocheted through the corridors of his mind like a ping-pong ball on steroids. He regretted offing Kirilov. He was glad he’d offed Kirilov. The man was a dumbass. He wished Kirilov were here.
At a micro-molecular level, Shelton realized there was something wrong, but the same synapses that refused to allow him consistent thought about Kirilov also denied him access to reality or to negative feelings about himself.
He gawked at the bourgeois milling around like sheep and asked himself what he’d been thinking when he thought they were worth all his sacrifice. The dumbasses were digging more holes. He remembered vaguely they did the same thing during the trip from Corpus, but he couldn’t remember why.
While Wade headed to Okeechobee, Stuart and Randal manned the command center.
Randal stood at the wall map. “They damn sure didn’t leave those birds in Corpus. And if they’re not with the assault team, where the hell are they?”
“They’re here somewhere, Stu. We’ll deal with them when they show. Are all of the noncombatants in the safe area?”
“Yeah, including Horst’s people.”
“Tyler’s intel puts their armor at eighteen Strykers, at least four Bradleys, and around 3,000 ground pounders. Looks like the bulk of their civilian population is staying in Yeehaw. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be. I’m warming up the Apache.”
The door to the CC burst open, and Maggie and Adam entered. Maggie looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “Where’s Wade, Randal?”
“He’s on a mission, Mags. He’ll be back soon.”
She stood behind Adam with her arms around him. “Your brother wants to fight, Randal.”
The look on the twelve-year-old boy’s face tore at Randal’s heart. He kneeled, put a hand on Adam’s shoulder, and looked him in the eye. “Hey, buddy. I need you to help Noah protect the safe area. He’ll give you a weapon when you get there.”
“But I want to fight with you and Dad.”
“I know you do. But I really need you to help Noah. I’m counting on you. You help him, and you protect your mom. Okay?”
Adam hesitated.
Randal said, “Okay?”
Adam nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”
Maggie’s face betrayed her tension. Her forehead was creased in three distinct lines. “Randal, I can’t leave my patients. Janet is near death, and two more of the elders are ill.”
Randal put a hand on her shoulder. “Maggie, if we lose this battle, it won’t matter. You won’t have any patients, and they won’t have a doctor. They’ll manage without you for a couple of hours. I’ll call Noah about Adam. Take him and get back to the safe area.”
She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, took Adam’s hand, and hurried out the door.
Three minutes later, Randal
called Wade from the pilot’s seat of the Apache. “We’re operational just in case, Dad. Standing by. How long before you blow the bridge?”
“Just got here. Less than ten.”
“You don’t have ten. Tyler says the lead vehicle’s five minutes out.”
“Then I better hurry up.”
Chapter Eighteen
End of the Line
Wade drove to the middle of the drawbridge, tossed a rope ladder, and went over the side. Working quickly, he wedged the last of the C-4 into the expansion joint between the steel lift section and the concrete base, set the timer for one minute, shinnied up the rope ladder, jumped the rail, and ran for the pickup.
The truck was still running, the driver’s door open, and Wade slid behind the wheel, made a three-point turn, and punched it. As the truck passed the western edge of the bridge approach, the lead Stryker rounded the slight curve in the roadway and loosed a volley from its M2 .50-caliber machine gun. A round hit the right rear tire of the truck, causing the vehicle to slew sideways into the guardrail. Wade’s world was turned upside down as the truck flipped, coming to rest on its wheels in the northbound ditch.
Before the truck stopped bouncing, the C-4 detonated. There was a loud whomp, followed by a ball of fire and white smoke. Chunks of concrete splashed into the water. The west end of the draw section buckled. A plume of dust rose into the air and, with a loud crack, half of the lift section plunged into the Kissimmee River.
Wade was stunned and shook his head to clear the cobwebs, exited the truck, and on all fours, scampered to an adjacent scrub palm and called Randal. “The bridge is down, but my ride’s done.”
“Are you injured?”
“Nothing serious. Arm’s busted up a bit. I’m in a slight depression ten yards from the truck. The bad guys have me bracketed.”
The sound of the big bullets from the lead Stryker’s .50-caliber machine gun raking the trees and chewing up the earth came through Randal’s earpiece loud and clear. A second later, the buzz from the Bradley’s 25-mm cannon joined the chorus.