by ML Banner
“They’re not the US Army,” Wilber hollered.
The men on stage pulled their charging handles back together and aimed their rifles.
“Son of a bitch. The bastards got us again,” Meryl stated.
They fired.
Chapter 31
Stowell, Texas
Grimes
The new long dipole antenna would let Robert Grimes hear the world, but he would miss signals too close to home.
He worked the needle-nose pliers, pulling the end strand of copper wire around itself, making sure it remained bound to the insulator. To relieve some of the strain it would absorb during windstorms, the insulator was connected to a tension spring strapped around his chimney.
The sixty-five-foot length of one half of the dipole now spanned his chimney to just below the top of the tower. The other end of the dipole extended to a tree on the other side of his property.
Just then he felt a small tremor, and he froze.
The top feet of his ladder shifted an inch across the fascia, its rubber digging in. It slid another inch and felt like it would let go, so he released the ladder’s rung and grabbed onto the antenna line with both hands. The slipping stopped. But he waited just in case. He didn’t want to repeat the casualty that had occurred six days ago on this very same roof.
He wanted to laugh at his near stupidity, but didn’t want to cause the ladder to move again.
The first time it had seemed like a good excuse, as he had thought he had seen the mushroom cloud in Jacksonville, Florida, and was so startled he lost his footing and fell off the damned roof. Aimes had to point out how ridiculous that was since Jacksonville was over eight hundred miles away and line of sight was only fifty miles on a good day. Yes, of course he was right, it would have been impossible. But he certainly saw something.
He felt the ladder move again and held on, swearing to himself that he was done climbing up ladders until his leg fully healed. But the ladder wasn’t slipping; it was shaking, like from an earthquake.
Now he heard the noise too: a deep rumble like a highway full of cars on their daily commute. The rumble grew, getting louder and deeper. Grimes held on and listened intently.
Then the sounds exploded from the tree line, and directly in front of him passed six separate US Army trucks. A convoy of trucks such as these would be used to transport more soldiers to a battlefield. Only these were older. Maybe that was all the Army could get back into service? he wondered.
After the convoy passed and the rumble subsided, Grimes carefully navigated down the ladder. He was dying to find out if his new antenna worked. Then he’d find out about the US Army’s plans for Stowell, Texas.
He still had less range than he did before on the UHF frequencies without the benefit of a rotor and the extra twenty feet of tower. But he definitely had more options on the SSB frequencies, and that meant he was just as likely to hear a signal from Houston as he might from Honolulu or Helsinki.
When he made it back to the safety of his desk chair, he urgently twirled the dial, hoping it would land on the right combination of frequency, time of day, signal strength, and distance away.
Nothing.
He also listened with his other ear to the chatter on his base unit for news on the Army trucks.
He twirled slowly to the next frequency, having had some luck before in this area.
A whine and warble around 3.5 MHz until he homed in on it: “… Army. They aren’t real. First it was all men with a weapon need to report to them …”
A repeating signal, like a radio beacon noise, bled over the transmission, making it impossible to understand. He tried to dial around it, but it was no use.
Then the clutter of noise disappeared and the broadcast was clear again.
“Repeat, we have been invaded by what appeared to be US Army trucks.” Grimes immediately flashed an image of the trucks that just drove by: US Army trucks. He turned up the volume. “They are not US Army. They are Islamic terrorists, the same ones who attacked us on July 4th, and they are now masquerading as US Army. When a group of us reported to them, giving up our guns, they slaughtered us. Repeat, if they show up in your town, ask to see their orders. If they cannot produce them, shoot them on sight, or they will do it to you. I repeat …”
The noise clutter bled in again, but he had heard enough.
Grimes twirled to AFN’s main broadcast frequency, clicked on his amplifier to make sure the signal covered as great a distance as possible, and flicked on the microphone. He also clicked open the base unit microphone. He wanted everybody to hear this.
“This is the American Freedom Network, broadcasting from Texas. You crazy asshole bastards from Iran or wherever you’re from. You didn’t get us. Yes, you blew our antenna tower to shit, but in less than a day, we’re back. And your man died anyway. My fellow Americans, I have much to report to you.”
Chapter 32
Endurance, Florida
Commander Bahia
Less than a dozen men showed up in a room designed for forty, unknowing that they were waiting impatiently for their own deaths.
Most of those were old men who possessed ancient weapons that didn’t look functional, like their owners. Only one man in the group brought with him an arsenal. Like his weapons, he looked serious. It was more than ten minutes after the stated meeting time, so Commander Bahia assumed no one else would be attending. Perhaps these were the only town residents they’d have to worry about.
The commander turned his attention from the little window in the room’s side door entrance to his five well-trained warriors. They would normally be more than enough to extinguish the apostates in the room. But something was wrong with them.
Each of his men scratched their arms and hands; their skin in the irritated areas was red and angry. One warrior was coughing loudly. After each bout of hacking, he desperately gulped for air. Unsuccessful, he started to wobble, like he might fall over at any moment.
“Soldier, you stay here,” he commanded the sickly warrior. “The rest of you, stop scratching and be ready on my command.”
The coughing one shrank back; a bout of hacking took over as he tried to muffle it with his hands. The other four shrank away from their sicklier brother, stepping closer to the meeting room’s entrance. They held up their M4 American rifles to show their commander that they were ready.
The commander examined the four warriors once again. The warrior closest to him clawed at a cheek, now radiating its own plume of red. The commander slapped at the warrior’s scratching hand, and then he plucked the warrior’s weapon right out of his free hand in an attempt to demonstrate how unready he was. The warrior became rigid, throwing a frightened gaze at his superior, who had caught him in a moment of weakness.
“Both hands on your weapon, and your safeties should be off,” Commander Bahia said, flicking the selector to “Auto.” The embarrassed warrior nodded furiously and accepted his rifle back. Sweat poured down his temples and onto his cheeks, giving him an even more flushed look.
The commander lamented to himself about the weapons his warriors were forced to use, watching another warrior fumble with the selector. His men were trained with AK-47s. And upon arrival to the States, he was expecting to receive the much newer AK-103s. Instead they were given these American-made rifles that used foreign ammunition and operated differently. But since the cell’s leader had trusted an American, this was what they would have to use. And because he was their commander, it was still his responsibility to bring honor to his men and to his Mahdi, in spite of Imam Ramadi’s mistakes.
There was a tingle in the commander’s fingers and on his neck, which he reflexively satisfied with an unconscious scratch. His nose then started to run. He quickly rubbed his palm across his nose and mouth before it could. Then he licked his lips, which felt dry—they were always dry when he had to speak to a group—and walked through the meeting room’s side door to address the infidels.
He was greeted with agitated glances, whi
ch grew more serious upon seeing him. Even the older men looked like they had come to attention. He decided then that he should not take them for granted. His pulse raced, and his throat felt raw. Involuntarily, he barked a quick cough, which grew to a long spastic bout. When he was done, he looked up and saw several of the infidels looking at him with sympathy and concern. He didn’t want their sympathy. The tickle in his throat grew, and now he was afraid that whatever cold he and his men had would silence him, allowing no more words but only coughing. He decided not to wait. So he signaled his warriors to enter. But none of them came through the door.
“Sir,” said the serious-looking man in front, “can we get you some water or something?” The man stood up from his chair and glared at him.
The commander ignored the question, stumbling to the door he’d entered through, and pushed it open. Behind it all his warriors were coughing in spasms, oblivious to their commander’s demands. The closest had his back to his commander and the door. The commander barked out scratchy words in Arabic, comparing them to dogs. Then he found his voice and, forgetting himself, yelled in English, “Kill these American whores.”
Two of the warriors rushed through the door, the first aiming his American rifle at the closest American now walking in their direction. The warrior squeezed the trigger.
~~~
Buford
The serious American sitting up front was Endurance’s most colorful resident, Buford Justice. He was an author and survivalist who mostly kept to himself. When he heard the Army trucks roll down his street, he followed them to the city center, curious if his country was finally taking it to the terrorists. When he heard their call for volunteers, he decided to take action rather than wait in his house for the invaders to come to him. He went back home and grabbed what weapons and ammo he could carry. He knew he’d probably be giving up some of his weapons to another townsperson. But if it helped to defend his home, it was worth it.
While waiting in the meeting room, he started to have doubts about the whole affair. When he saw how few volunteers showed up, and especially being older himself, he thought that his decision to come into town might be a bad one. He was about to go when the Army captain came out and started his hacking spell.
Buford rose to offer assistance to the man. At first, he was so shocked at the captain’s command to kill the “American whores” he froze, not believing his ears. That moment’s hesitation should have ended his life. But providence was on his side.
When he saw the two US troops rush through the door with the intent to shoot them, he went for his concealed weapon. They had asked for all his weapons before he entered. But he wasn’t about to give up his Taurus Slim 9 millimeter cradled to his back in an Uncle Mike’s holster. He moved quickly, but the soldier had already drawn down on him.
The soldier aimed his rifle right at him, and he was almost at point-blank range. The soldier’s finger curled around the trigger and squeezed just as Buford lifted his pistol up. Thankfully the soldier forgot to take it out of safe. This gave him enough time to thumb off his own safety and fire two rounds into the soldier.
The explosive sounds of an automatic rifle’s report burst beside Buford’s ears as the second soldier fired several rounds in another direction. The soldier stopped his killing to cough up blood. He looked up and saw Buford’s barrel. Buford squeezed his trigger twice.
“Get out the back door,” Buford roared at the uninjured men, though it sounded like he was yelling into a pillow. Buford turned to the back exit and galloped toward freedom.
Suddenly, he felt a need to turn around and face the front of the room.
The captain, after seeing that his first two men went down and the others were not responding, picked up a soldier’s dropped weapon. He pulled back the charging handle and rushed out the door, into the room. Appearing to look for his first target, he found Buford promptly. But Buford was already aiming his pistol at the captain. Buford squeezed his pistol’s trigger once more and dropped him.
Chapter 33
Stowell, Texas
Tariq
To Tariq Aziz, it wasn’t just wearing a US Army captain’s uniform that felt foreign. It was that nothing seemed to be going according to plan.
Now, no armed men—not even one—had showed up at the appointed hour to give up their weapons and volunteer to fight for their town. Mohammad stated that it was just that the men of this town were afraid and that meant they would be compliant during their demonstration. His intuition, forged over years of fighting his enemy on and off the battlefield, told him this meant something much more.
One of Aziz’s warriors reported seeing some men with rifles slung around their shoulders during the announcement. So this town certainly had men of fighting age with rifles, but no volunteers. He had never tried wearing their enemy soldiers’ uniforms and then offering to allow their citizens with weapons to come in willingly. But from what he understood of the American people, he thought this part of Mahdi Abdul’s battle plan would work well. He certainly didn’t expect no takers.
Aziz walked through the designated meeting area, which was a break room of the Saw Buck Store they had taken over. He stepped through the side entrance to ask his men a few more questions, stopping first to gaze up to the roof. It was why he chose this building to take over Stowell. Since they had no obvious city hall or central meeting place, this place stood out with its vast parking lot, indicating a majority of the citizens came to this store to buy useless devices for their homes and idols for their walls and lawns. But it was the roof that was the most useful, as it offered the best view of the whole town. Until after the execution and sharia announcements, which they might have to do sooner rather than later, he had Mohammad and several of their men waiting on the roof to provide protection if their armed citizens decided to fight back.
Aziz stopped at the two empty tables by the door. They were set up to collect guns and ammunition, their emptiness now plainly telling Aziz what he already knew; for whatever reason, no one was coming. His two warriors snapped to attention upon seeing him, their eyes following three men approaching them from the back of the property. He asked, while he examined the approaching men, if there had been any other townspeople coming forward, even to ask questions. The two men’s “No!” was as detached as his question.
“Maybe these are recruits,” said one of the warriors.
The three men who marched in their direction were led by a thick bald one. Aziz knew even from this distance that these men were warriors like his own men. These three walked with the presence and purpose of warriors.
At first Aziz thought that these men were going to comply with their orders. But his years of experience fighting and dealing with other men told him otherwise. There was no hesitation in their step; each man had a rifle slung behind his back so as not to look like a threat, but the weapons could be brought to a ready position quickly; and each man’s eyes were studying them, examining their occupied store and Aziz’s other men up front in the parking lot. No, Aziz knew these men were not here to volunteer.
But Aziz couldn’t do anything to reveal who he and his men were until he presented the executions and made the final announcement. Until then, they were to pretend to be friends, wearing this country’s military uniforms.
The short but solid leader said something to the other two, now close enough that Aziz could see he bore a tattoo on his bicep that said USMC. But it wasn’t until he and each of his men unslung their rifles that Tariq understood that this town knew their real identity.
~~~
Aimes
Aimes couldn’t believe their luck.
When the US Army trucks had come into town, for a moment he was filled with the same hope he imagined others were: that they were the real thing. When he heard the Army captain announce their request for male volunteers to show up in an hour with their guns and ammo, he was instantly suspicious. But none of them knew for sure until Grimes shouted over the radio that they were actually terrorists.
This was the invasion they had been waiting for.
Their plan was brilliant, really. Rather than coming into town shooting, like the Mad Max discards who had tried unsuccessfully earlier, these invaders came in as the US Army. That meant their town would have their guard down, trusting on the belief they were here to help. But the true brilliance was their plan to defang the Americans by convincing their armed population to surrender themselves and their weapons by volunteering. They would kill that town’s militia and take their weapons, making sure the town became compliant.
Once he and his group had uncovered the terrorist cell in their own town and their plans for an invasion, Aimes doubted how these terrorists could succeed. Even if they were able to kill all their active military, which he didn’t believe they could, there were just too many armed citizens who would fight back. It was true that most of the population no longer could stomach war, but he knew there were enough retired military and survivalists out there to put up a real fight.
They were just lucky to find out about their enemy’s plan before they could succumb to it. But they had very little time. They spread the word to all the townspeople to stay away from the Saw Buck Store and that their militia was to meet to plan how to take on these invaders.
After the militia had met and understood their plan, they decided that Aimes would lead an attack directly at the enemy.
When they approached, he could see that they were perplexed by them. He had planned for them to get closer, but he could see the fake Army captain was agitated. So Aimes barked off his command, and that was when the fake officer jumped for his rifle while yelling to his men in Arabic what Aimes guessed were orders to shoot. He wouldn’t let them.
Aimes swung his AK around and squeezed the trigger less than a second later. He led a trail of bullets from the captain to the other two men, who weren’t able to reach their own weapons. When he let go of his trigger maybe three seconds later, his men were firing upon the other enemy soldiers visible in front and back of the building. Aimes could hear other gunfire start around the building. They had the building surrounded; he watched the remaining fake Army men pile into the building for protection. That was when the militia’s luck ran out.