“That’s outta respect for Little Sable. If it was just us, I’d let you two fight it out.” Steele had no delusions of where he would end up in that brawl with Red Stripe fists raining down on him.
“I understand,” Steele said. He turned his back on Garrett. Either he was brave to turn his back, stupid, or confident. He marched back to the boy. His boots swept the sandy soil.
“Who are you and why are you here?” Steele asked the boy, putting his best drill instructor face on.
The boy stuttered. “I…I…I…I’m Max. I’m here alone. My parents.” The boy stopped a moment, collecting himself. “My parents are gone and I wanna, wanna learn how to fight.” The look on the boy’s face made Steele wonder how he had survived this long. Steele almost wished he hadn’t asked, feeling a pang of guilt in his gut, but he pushed onward. If the young man couldn’t face his reality, he would never be able to kill a man.
“I can teach you to fight, Max. But do you have what it takes to win a fight?” Steele put a finger harder than he wanted to on the teenager’s chest. “Do you have what it takes inside?” Max’s eyes bugged out from his head.
“Ye-ye-yes, sir,” he exclaimed. Steele almost had sympathy for what he was about to do. He gave the kid a quick jab to the gut. Not hard, but enough to knock the wind out of his surprised victim. Max coughed and sputtered, dropping to his knees as he regained his breath. His eyes looked betrayed as he tried to breathe in air that eluded his lungs.
“How can I depend on you in a fight when you can’t even take a punch to the gut? How can these men and women standing around you depend on you to do what you have to do to win?” He needed soldiers, fighters, at the very least athletes, not teenage boys who didn’t have parents. He paced again. Ahmed held him in cold regard.
Kevin leaned forward as he passed. “A little harsh on the kid, don’t you think?” His breath reeked of alcohol.
Steele glared at him. Kevin’s eyelids were only half-open like he could fall asleep at any minute, a sign that his friend was already well into his drinking for the day. “A little early to be hitting the bottle so hard?”
“Who said I stopped from last night?”
Steele shook his head. “Is he still there?” Kevin looked over his head.
“Yup.”
“Then maybe I’m wrong about him,” he whispered.
Steele crossed back the way he had come. Eyes followed him back and forth, awaiting the enlightenment that martial prowess gives. It was as if he held the golden ticket to survival that only the misery of military discipline could provide the answer for.
“Do any of you have any prior military or law enforcement experience?”
One of the older men raised his hand. A patchwork beard grew haphazardly over his face. He looked like a man who had shaved on the regular to hide his beard growing deficiencies but hadn’t had access to a razor in about five weeks.
“Sir, eight years National Guard.”
“What’s your name? And do not call me, sir. Jesus.”
“Larry Capers, sir?”
“MOS?” Steele demanded.
“I was a 92G, culinary specialist, sir.” His military experience is a goddamn cook.
“Thank you,” Steele said, trying to hide his disappointment. Attitude is a reflection of leadership, and he didn’t want them running themselves down at the very beginning.
A man in the middle of the group raised a tired, worn hand. When Steele drew near, he wondered how he had escaped the nursing home and made it to the coast.
“Yes, elder.”
“Name is Bengy Sloman, sir.” His voice crackled. “Owned a hardware store until recently, and before that, I fought in Korea.”
“Korea?” Steele said. The Forgotten War? “Like you were stationed in Korea?”
The old man wrinkled his large downward-curved nose. “Nope. Fought there in ’52.”
This guy can’t be serious. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be eighty-three in December, sir.”
Steele reached out and gently squeezed Bengy’s bony shoulder. He leaned close and dropped the level of his voice. “You don’t have to be here. You’ve served enough for your country. Let the younger folk take up the fight. You can rest.”
Bengy frowned. His face was lined and worn with speckled skin. “It’s a privilege to answer the call. I’d rather fight than have my kids stick me in some nursing home, but I don’t think that’s likely now.” Steele released his shoulder and glanced at Thunder.
“He’s a volunteer, ain’t he?” Thunder rumbled with a nod.
“Yes, he is. If you get too tired, take a break. I don’t want you getting hurt training.”
Bengy’s mouth twitched, regarding the biker with disdain. The men were the product of two wars in two different times. One war forgotten. One war despised. Bengy had grown up in the shadow of the Greatest Generation while Thunder was a by-product of the counterculture Baby Boomers.
Bengy’s hair was still cut short like a fresh recruit, and his face still managed to be cleanly shaven. Thunder’s long hair hung down to his shoulders, and his gray beard touched his chest.
“I walked out of Unsan. Not many of us did. I’m not worried about a couple of laps around the compound with you kids.”
“Thank you. Feel free to pass along any insights as we train.”
Bengy smiled, revealing crooked brown stained teeth. “I’m sure things have changed, but I’ll help where I can.”
Steele nodded his acknowledgment. Tough, ancient SOB.
Retracing his steps, he passed in front of Max. The boy stood erect back in his place.
“You’re still here?” Steele addressed him. “Why?”
The boy looked scared like he might try to run. “I-I-I, yes, sir,” Max stammered. “I want to fight.” Put somebody through enough and they will either quit or be your worst enemy.
“Don’t call me sir,” Steele said again.
“Yes, sir,” Max piped up. He looked down again. His eyes darted between his older peers.
Steele ignored the boy and continued his inspection, stopping in front of the woman. The only woman to answer the call. She had spoken during the meeting the night before. “Why are you here, ma’am?”
Her ear-length hair held more gray streaks through it than her natural auburn color. Her chin was narrow and her mouth wide, making it seem like her face needed more room. She licked her dry lips before she spoke.
“I’m tired of killing those shamblers with a shovel. I want to learn to shoot.” Her eyes went downward on the ends making her seem perpetually worried.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked.
“Margaret Goodspeed. I lost my husband weeks ago.” Even through her downturned eyebrows, her eyes grew cold. “And my kids are at university.” Her eyes told him to not ask any more questions about it. Steele nodded, leaving it alone.
“Have you ever used a gun?”
“Never. Anti-gun my whole life,” she said, clenching her jaw as if the thought gave her anxiety, however determined she might be.
“Times change. We’ll teach you.” Steele continued walking. “And you three?”
An average-sized man in his forties with wavy brown hair nodded. “I’m Steve, used to be an engineer.” Should have you planning our fortifications, not manning the barricade with the grunts. Steele moved on.
A lean black-haired man with pale skin smiled. “I’m Jason.”
“Former occupation?”
“Used to be a dairy farmer.”
“Good. And you?” Steele looked up at a tall black man with graying hair at the temples.
The man lifted his chin slightly. “I’m Nathan. I was an accountant before all of this.”
“And you?” Steele stared at a twenty-something college-aged kid.
“Name’s Alex Jones. I was in college in Grand Rapids. Hitched a ride out here with an old couple.” The sandy blond young man avoided eye contact with Steele.
“Prior weapons hand
ling experience?” Steele barked at them. Nervous eyes answered.
Their answers came out broken and not even close to being in unison with one another. “No, sir.”
Steele sighed. How many of them will I need to add to my list before the end of the week? You, Steve? You, Larry? All of us? He wrestled his mind knowing that at some point they would be added to his list.
The last man stood with his bolt-action deer hunting rifle on his shoulder. He had a goatee and longer brown hair with the look of a country boy.
“And you?”
“Name’s Trent. Lived up ’bout ten miles that way.” He gestured with his head.
“Why aren’t you still there? Seems isolated enough up here.”
“Those wing nuts burnt my house down. Barely made it out with my family.”
“Sorry to hear it. Glad you’re here. What do you have there?”
“It’s my Winchester XPR .30-06 Springfield. Bagged some big bucks with it.”
Trent held it up for Steele to see. Steele took it from him. It weighed about six-and-a-half pounds. Camouflaged synthetic stock. Steele eyed the scope atop the rifle.
“Leopold optics. Good choice.” Steele held the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the scope. “Can you shoot?”
Trent nodded. “Yes, sir. Deer hunt every fall. Set me up anywhere and I’ll knock ’em dead within at least four hundred yards.” He gave Steele a cool look.
Steele smiled. Finally a shooter. A glimmer of hope amongst the dim prospects of his volunteers. He turned toward Thunder. “Let’s have him help instruct. No use retraining him on a new weapon.”
“No problem,” Thunder said.
“Glad to have a shooter onboard,” Steele said. Trent grinned.
“I tried to get the rest of them knuckleheads to join up, but some folk need more warming up to do. Not too trusting of new folk, especially ones like you claiming they’re from the government and going to help.” He reached up and touched Steele’s bicep. “But I’ll say, I believe you. Damn, boss. You work out?”
“Ha. I used to when I had the time.”
“Don’t look like you stopped.”
“Wish I hadn’t. Welcome aboard.” Steele turned back to Thunder. “The floor is yours. What do we have to train them on?”
Thunder came forward and dropped a large bag in front of Steele. It clanked on the ground. Thunder grunted as he bent low and unzipped the black bag.
Removing the items one by one, he set them back atop the bag.
Two .22s, a 12-gauge shotgun, an M1 Garand, two .30-06 hunting rifles, and an old Colt AR-15. Thunder bent down while unloading the guns and handed them out to the volunteers.
“Make sure Max gets a .22,” Steele said under his breath to Thunder.
“Good idea. If he shoots one of us, maybe it won’t be so bad,” Thunder said.
“Where’d you get that antique?”
Thunder smirked. “I know you’re a former agent ‘n’ all, but let’s not get into too much detail about how these guns were acquired.”
Steele eyed the man. He’s right. What’s it matter now? As long as they work, it doesn’t matter. “Point taken.”
Steele surveyed the volunteers. He may as well have given them broomsticks.
Half the group held them as if they were holding an electric eel; the other half hugged them tight as if they never wanted to let them go.
“Which one, old-timer?” Thunder boomed.
“Nothing better than an M1 Garand,” Bengy said, holding his wood stocked gun out for his own inspection. “Like an old friend she is,” the old man said to himself.
“Is this a machine gun?” Steve asked, holding the AR-15.
Steele took a deep breath. This is going to be a long day.
KINNICK
Golden Triangle, CO
A green little airplane inched its way up a giant flat flight screen over twenty feet high. The number US 19 was tagged on it. Only a few planes floated on the black radar screen like a 1980’s video game. Kinnick watched the NORAD operations center work as he waited for the vice president. For hours, he sat with the operations staff, staring at the green planes that ticked across the screen from Alaska to Peterson Airfield. Blips of helicopters shot in and out of Peterson’s airspace. Combat runs.
“You got any fast movers going?” Kinnick asked a female captain sitting at a computer. The woman glanced at Kinnick, removing strands of blonde hair from behind her ear, and gave him a flash of white teeth.
“A few, but most of the airfields where they’re stationed are offline. A squadron of F-16s ended up here, but not many of them to go around. Peterson is a slow mover airfield and a large portion of Air Force Space Command. We mostly do resupply with the option to intercept from other airfields around the nation. We don’t really have an air-to-air threat so most of our resources like fuel are going to close air support. Apaches, Cobras and a squadron of A-10s up from Davis-Monthan.”
“How are the space boys doing?”
“They’ve been scrambling since we started losing satellites.”
She looked at his Army Combat Uniform. “You an Army flyer?”
“Air Force, actually. C-130 Hercules. Spent a little bit of time here, but that seems like a lifetime ago.”
She glanced at his uniform, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with the Army uniform?”
He chuckled, looking down at his uniform. He pulled on the jacket sleeve. “You could say that I’ve been adopted. Always a flyer, no matter what uniform I wear.”
“We’ve been looking for more pilots. Our crews have been running ragged on only a few hours of sleep a night.” They flew high in the sky above the ruined earth. Miles away from the dead bodies and their rotting stench. Miles away from the cries for help. Thousands of meters from the infected, marching unknown below him. Easy to forget the reality when you were in the clouds.
Kinnick gave her a grim smile. “I think my fight is going to be on the ground for this war. A friend once told me that boots on the ground was the only way to really win a war, and I think he’s got the right idea on this one.”
The captain looked nervous as if he were asking her to get on the frontline.
“You been off this base? You seen any of them?” Kinnick asked.
“No, not after the lockdown. All I hear are the horror stories.” She looked down at her keyboard as if the keys were the only thing keeping her alive.
A man in a blue uniform with stars on his shoulders entered the floor from the vice president’s War Room. He marched for Kinnick with purpose in his step.
“Maybe when your shift is done we can grab a coffee? Talk about better days.”
She covered her microphone with her hand, glancing down at his full bird on the front of his uniform. “Is that an order, sir?”
“No, ma’am, and I’m retired.”
She gave him a soft smile with her slightly pursed rose lips. “Sure.”
“I’m not even sure I know your name, Captain.”
“It’s Gallagher, sir.”
“You can call me, Mike.”
“Okay, Mike.” She smiled a bit and her eyes darted behind him. Kinnick could feel the general’s presence.
“Colonel Kinnick?”
“Yes, sir.” Kinnick stood at attention.
The three-star general in a blue army dress uniform nodded. “I’m General Monroe. Stand easy.”
Kinnick relaxed. Old habits died hard.
“You may come with me. The vice president is ready for you.”
The general’s eyes fell upon the captain, now trying to look busy at her computer screen.
“I see Captain Gallagher has been taking care of you while you were waiting,” the broad-shouldered general said to him.
Kinnick’s mouth quivered, thinking about smiling. “Yes, sir. She has been very accommodating. Gave me a chance to catch up on the ongoing aviation operations.”
“She’s a good airman. We all have a part to play in this war,” Monroe said.<
br />
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Follow me.” The general waved him forward. “I read your after-action report on the search and rescue mission. That’s some damn good work. I’m thinking about recruiting you for my division. You set the bar high. By the time this is done, you may have a promotion lined up.”
I’m not doing this for promotion. This is survival. “With all due respect, I’m retired, sir.”
The general opened the door, holding it into the War Room.
“No one’s retired anymore.”
Kinnick entered the room. The vice president sat at the head of his War Room conference table. A four-star general with glasses sat on his right in a blue uniform. Must be NORAD’s base commander, an Air Force general. An Air Force one-star general sat on the four-star’s right. Monroe took a seat on the vice president’s left. A collection of colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors sat on either side of the filled table. The vice president smiled at something the four-star said and nodded to Kinnick.
“Colonel Kinnick. It’s good to see you again,” the vice president said. He wore the same stained shirt and loose tie he had worn the day before. “I see you met General Monroe, commanding officer of Fort Carson. He has adopted all ground forces for continuing operations, and this is General Daugherty, highest ranking general in our armed forces as we speak. He is developing the strategy to take back America.” The blue-uniformed Air Force general nodded to Kinnick, looking over his glasses.
General Daugherty pointed. “Why don’t you take a seat, and we will get started.”
Eyes turned toward Kinnick. A single empty seat sat at the opposing side of the table across from Vice President Brady. Kinnick took the leather armrests in his hands and settled in, not finding the seat comfortable.
Vice President Brady looked like a mess instead of the Leader of the Free World. His American flag pin on his lapel was tilted a bit to the left. The military men around him looked clean and well-kempt, the stress of war not showing real strain on their physical appearance. Vice President Brady treated his appearance with the air of a divorced bachelor. Unshaven. Messy hair. Dirty clothes. He folded his hands together on the table.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 19