Officer Of The Watch: Blackout Volume 1

by D W McAliley

  "Okay," Marcus shouted over the sound of the helicopter. "What do you want to hear?"

  "What are you doing out here in a working Blackhawk, for starters?" the commander asked.

  "Classified, Captain," Marcus replied, noticing the two silver bars on the man's fatigues. "We're just here for refueling, and we'll be on our way."

  "Who are you with?" the Captain asked, his eyes narrowing. "You don't seem like the FEMA type."

  "Private contractor," Marcus replied, noticing a sour twist to the Captain's face. "Can't be more specific than that. We are on contract with FEMA and DHS, though, and operate under their authority."

  The Captain frowned and thought for a moment, his eyes troubled. He had to know that there was only one way Marcus could possibly have the valid authentication code he'd used. Those codes had been changed immediately after the blackout, and new sets of go codes and confirmation codes had been disseminated from the very system Marcus helped design and maintain under Terry Price. Marcus knew without a doubt the codes were authentic, and so was the Captain. With that knowledge, there wasn't really a whole lot the Captain could officially do to stand in his way.

  "Do you have any word from outside?" the Captain asked finally. "Anything at all about what's happening?"

  Marcus nodded slowly. "That I can tell you," he replied, and the Captain visibly relaxed a bit. "I'm Marcus Attledge."

  "Withers," the officer replied, stepping forward and extending his hand. "Captain James Withers. Like I said before, welcome to Tennessee."

  Marcus nodded and shook the Captain's hand.

  Ch. 59

  A Quiet Sunrise

  Joe sat in the family room listening to the soft tick-tock of the antique Regulator hanging above the fireplace. The brass pendulum rhythmically marked out the seconds just as it had for more than fifty years. The rest of the house was silent save for the sounds of sleep and snoring. Joe could hear the big fellow, Bill, who was sleeping outside on the side porch in a sleeping bag. He had helped settle Gilbert and his family on the front porch with some sleeping bags from the stockpile. It wasn't the most comfortable place to make a bed, but that was temporary, and they had been more than grateful just for a place to stretch out and rest their heads.

  The white porcelain cup of instant coffee in Joe's hands had cooled enough that he was able to drain it in two large gulps. He sat for a while staring into the empty mug, his thoughts rolling around in his head like loose bowling balls. Outside, the sky had turned a pearly gray that hinted at the coming dawn.

  Later, Joe couldn't be sure how long, the door across the family room opened, and his father-in-law stepped into the room. Levy was neatly dressed in a pair of dark khaki work pants and a buttoned plaid cotton shirt. Levy's Velcro tennis shoes had been brushed clean of dust and dirt from the previous day's work in the fields, and his hair was neatly parted to the right. If he was surprised to find Joe awake ahead of him, it didn't show.

  "Good morning, Joe," Levy said, taking his glasses off to wipe the lenses clean. "Good to see you back safe and sound. Did you find what you were looking for up north?"

  Joe shook his head, still staring into the coffee cup.

  "What happened, son?" Levy asked softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Joe shook his head again, looking up and meeting Levy's eyes. "Not yet. I will, but not yet."

  Joe stood and set the coffee cup on the mantle and scooped four fresh bottle caps into his hand. He picked up his scoped bolt action rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed a roll of duct tape and a paper match target from the hearth. Levy watched him quietly from across the room, his eyes and face full of concern and unasked questions.

  "Can you do me a favor?" Joe asked, and Levy nodded slowly. "Don't let anyone go past the garden field until I come back. We'll talk then, okay?"

  Joe started for the door, but Levy placed a hand gently on his shoulder and stopped him.

  "Whatever you done," Levy said slowly, looking Joe square in the eyes as he spoke, "it got you home safe, son. You're a good man. Don't you doubt it for one minute," Levy said as he squeezed Joe's shoulder and then patted it softly.

  Joe wasn't quite sure what to say, so he swallowed past the hard lump that had formed in his throat and nodded. Levy turned and went into the kitchen to fix some coffee, and Joe stepped out on the back porch. He took a deep breath of the cool morning air and started walking. The rough road that led down the hill to the garden field was still in deep shade beneath the towering oaks and pine trees on either side. Spider webs outlined in thick drops of dew stretched across the road in several places, but Joe avoided them easily.

  At the back edge of the garden field, Joe stepped into the woods. The shadows were dark beneath the canopy even though the sky had begun to lighten considerably. There was a road that ran down to the river fields that Joe could have used, but he felt like stretching his woodsman's legs this morning. He picked his way carefully and silently through the thick leaf litter that covered the forest floor as birds and squirrels scattered into the trees ahead of him.

  At the bottom of the long slope of the hill, the ground flattened out into a broad flood plain. The trees thinned out a little, and Joe stepped out onto the same road that Levy and Eric had walked the day before on their fishing trip. Joe followed the road around past the big rock fishing hole until he came to the last of the river fields. The field was two hundred and thirty yards long and around eighty yards wide. The far end of the field was raised slightly, and years ago he'd built up a shooting platform there.

  Joe took the target to a mound of earth that had been piled with a backhoe just at the edge of the thin line of trees that separated his end of the field from the river. A broad, flat piece of plywood riddled with holes lay flat against the steep side of the earthen bulwark facing the opposite end of the field. Joe taped the paper target to the center of the board, and then taped one of the bottle caps to each of the four corners of the paper.

  The soybeans planted in the field were waist high and a deep emerald green. The stalks swayed in the light morning breeze, and they would serve as a wind indicator for Joe once he was in place. He walked slowly through the field, making note of the deer, rabbit, and raccoon tracks that littered the soft soil. Some of the tracks were faded and washed out from weeks of rain, but others were deep, crisp, and no more than a day old. A few tracks from coyotes ran through the field also, tight on the tracks of a rabbit or squirrel. Joe knew that at least three bobcats lived on the family's property, but they were much harder to track than the coyotes. The soft fur and padding on the cats' paws made their tracks shallow and soft, and they washed out completely with even a light rain.

  When Joe reached the flat-topped dirt mound that served as his shooting platform, he climbed to the top and began setting up his shooting area. He placed a small plastic ammunition box where he'd be able to reach it easily with his right hand. A pair of spotting binoculars went to his left to check his shots. Joe flipped down the bipod attached to the fore end of the rifle and set it on the mound. Then he carefully settled himself into a prone position with his legs extended behind him and spread slightly more than shoulder width apart.

  Joe sighted down the scope first, and then reached up to turn the dial while counting the faint clicks in his head. The scope had been zeroed in at one hundred and fifty yards, so he had to raise the point of impact slightly for the extended range. He guessed the wind speed at no more than five miles per hour to the right, and adjusted his reticule accordingly. Finally set, Joe loaded one of the .25-06 cartridges that he'd hand-loaded months earlier. The powder was carefully measured and packed to provide the best speed, longest range, and flattest trajectory possible for his bullet weight.

  Joe shifted his weight slightly and sighted through the scope again. He slowed his breathing, taking deep and even breaths in and out, counting in his head to set a steady rhythm. He breathed in deep one last time, and let a little more than half of the air out of his lungs and held t
he rest. As he began squeezing the trigger slowly, meticulously, Joe became acutely aware of his heartbeat. In the space between one beat and the next, Joe squeezed the last little bit, and the round fired.

  The rifle was loud, but the recoil was easily absorbed by Joe's body and the ground he was resting on. The targeting reticule barely moved, and Joe could clearly see the point of impact on the neon "splatter" target; three inches low and two to the right. The first shot was always off, though, thanks to the cold barrel. Joe sighted on the center of the bull's-eye again and controlled his breathing. At just the right moment, he squeezed off another round. This time, his shot hit just slightly below center. Joe clicked the elevation dial on his scope one time to the right to raise the point of impact slightly. This time, though, instead of aiming for the center of the target, he aimed just a hair below center. He sent three rounds down range, and then checked his accuracy with the binoculars; all three of his last shots were nearly on top of each other and tightly clustered in the very center of the red bull's-eye.

  Satisfied that he was dialed in on the target, Joe moved his aim over to the bottle cap in the top left corner of the target. He slowed his breathing and carefully squeezed the trigger smoothly, evenly. The shot rang out, and Joe knew it was a hit before the bullet even reached the target. He repeated the process on each corner of the target. When he reached the last cap, though, he hesitated. For a brief moment, as Joe sighted down the scope at the last bottle cap, he thought he saw a face staring back at him, pale and drawn in a twisted expression of pain and suffering.

  Joe squeezed his eyes shut and took three deep, long breaths. Suddenly sweat stood out on his forehead and the back of his neck, making the slight breeze feel clammy against his skin. After a moment, his breathing and his hands steady, he forced his eyes open, and looked through the scope. He refused to allow his emotions to overwhelm him again. There would be time to deal with those feelings one day, but this was not that day.

  Joe took a deep breath and slowly exhaled half of it. He timed his heartbeats and squeezed the trigger slowly and evenly until the hammer fell once more, and his round was sent down range. Before the round left the gun, Joe knew it would be a hit. He stood and collected his things, carefully brushing the dirt from his binoculars before replacing them in the field case that hung from his left shoulder.

  When he reached the target board, there were five holes in the paper target, three of them nearly stacked on top of each other in the dead center. And all four bottle caps were neatly pierced through the center with a perfectly round hole. Joe took the bottle caps down, and with shaking fingers he tied them with the others on the leather thong around his neck as the first rays of the sun fell on the river bottom.

  Ch. 60

  Deep Shadows

  Marcus stood in the break room on the bottom floor of the control tower, a fresh cup of coffee in his hands. The room was large enough to double as the mess hall for the small Tennessee Air National Guard base with extra folding tables stacked against one wall. Right now, the four small square tables set up in the room were only half full, with the Captain standing off to one side from his men.

  All eyes were on Marcus.

  "There's only so much we know for sure," Marcus said carefully, "and even less that I'm allowed to actually talk about for security concerns. What I can tell you is that this was a deliberate attack, not an accidental failure or natural catastrophe."

  The men in the room all nodded slowly, some whispering softly to each other until the Captain cleared his throat loudly. He nodded to Marcus to continue once order was restored.

  "We don't know who attacked us," Marcus said, "but there is an active and ongoing response and investigation. More than that, I can't say."

  "Is help coming?" the Captain asked. "The people around here are getting anxious. Some of them are still on well water, and a lot of them use wood stoves for heat, but enough are hooked into the utilities that are now down that we're running out of the supplies to help them. We need things like water, food, blankets, generators.... when can we expect help and relief?"

  Marcus took a deep breath and looked into his coffee cup for a moment, trying to compose an effective answer. His stomach was twisted in knots, and he felt ill.

  "We are actively working on that," Marcus said finally, and grimaced even as the words were coming out of his mouth.

  The Captain's faced hardened, and his eye narrowed. "In other words," he said quietly, "you don't know. We're on our own."

  "Captain Withers," Marcus said with a meaningful glance at the dozen or so other uniformed men in the room, "maybe we should talk amongst ourselves? Some of this information is sensitive."

  The Captain shook his head flatly. "I told these men when they agreed to stay that I wouldn't hide anything from them. Half of the guys on the books at this base never even showed up when the lights went down, and more than half of the ones who did took off back to their homes after the first day. We stayed, all of us. They deserve to hear it just as much as I do, and this way I don't have to retell it."

  Marcus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could tell in the Captain's voice and his eyes that he meant every word he'd said. Finally, Marcus gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and met the Captain's gaze.

  "I guess 'need to know' has changed in the past few days," Marcus agreed. "You're right; we don't know when help is going to come. But I wasn't lying when I said we're working on it--we really are-- it's just not number one on the priority list. For the moment, you need to do your best to maintain order locally and keep people safe. Try and get the residents who have wells to provide supplementary supplies to the ones that don't."

  The Captain's jaws clenched and he looked as if he could have chewed a ten penny nail in half if he'd had one. Just at that moment, there was a knock at the closed door, and the pilot stuck in his head and gave Marcus a thumbs up signal.

  "Well," Captain Withers growled, "I'm sure glad we could fill up the tanks for you, Mister Attledge. Of course, if we get a call and have to use our choppers for a search and recovery op, then we might be 'up the creek,' so to speak. And so will the person on the other end of the line."

  "Look, I get it," Marcus said. "You're pissed. But all I did was tell you the truth. Would you rather have that or an answer that you wanted to hear?"

  Captain Withers was silent for a long moment, but he finally shrugged his shoulders slightly. "The truth," he said, "but you're right, I am pissed. We need real help out here, and you're basically telling me to take a number. Is this what it's like everywhere?"

  "No," Marcus said simply, "most places; it's worse; a lot worse. All I can do, Captain Withers, is give you my word that I will do whatever I can to get you and your men help and relief. Beyond that, I can't make any promises."

  Captain Withers looked Marcus deep in the eyes for a long time and finally nodded his head once. "Okay, Mr. Attledge," the Captain said, extending his hand again, "I'll take you at your word."

  Marcus breathed a deep sigh of relief and shook the Captain's hand.

  For a brief moment, the Captain's grip tightened. "And I'll hold you to it, too," the Captain said.

  Marcus swallowed hard and drained his cup of cool coffee in one long gulp to cover his discomfort. He thanked the Captain for his hospitality, and the two men walked back outside, leaving the rest of the soldiers to talk in tight, hushed conversations among themselves. Outside, the sky was light enough for it to be morning already, but the sun was nowhere to be seen.

  "The sun is up already," Captain Withers said, following Marcus's eyes upward, "but we're in deep shadows here in the valley. Sunrise for us comes a few hours later than the rest of the world."

  "Stay in the shadows," Marcus said as the pilot fired up the Blackhawk's engines behind him. "I wasn't lying when I said it's worse out there. I didn't want your men to hear this, but we had to bypass Knoxville and Memphis. They're both burning bad, and we couldn't get anyone to return our calls. You guys were our last
stop before we had to set the chopper down to avoid a crash."

  "I understand," the Captain said, leaning close so Marcus could hear him. "I didn't mean to take it out on you. I know you didn't do this. You're just the one who showed up; that's all."

  Marcus nodded. "One last thing, Captain," he said, shouting now over the roar of the engines, "I gave you the truth, even though you didn't want to hear it. Be very wary of people who come and give you promises."

  Before Captain Withers could ask what he meant, Marcus ducked and ran over to the open door on the Blackhawk's cockpit. He climbed in next to the pilot and slid the door closed. The engines throttled up, and the chopper slowly climbed into the air. The pilot stayed low, barely over the trees, and as they banked away, Marcus looked back. Framed in the lit doorway of the control tower, Captain James Withers snapped to attention and gave a salute. Then, the trees passed between them and Marcus lost sight of the 5th Mountain Rescue Wing of the Tennessee Air National Guard, and their commander.

  As the pilot navigated the valley, Marcus closed his eyes and said a short silent prayer asking God to protect all those waking up in deep shadows.

  Ch. 61

  A Working Relationship

  Terry Price sat at his desk, his fingers arched in a steeple on his chest. The silence in the office stretched, and Terry could hear the second hand on his watch ticking away. His guest took a deep, deliberately loud breath slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth.

  Terry waited.

  "Mister Price," Jefferson grated, "are you going to answer my question?"

  Terry gave the Chief Administrator of FEMA a wry half smile and said, "You know, I don't think I will. I once heard someone say that it's never the question that's indiscreet, it's only the answer. It kind of stuck with me."

  Jefferson's jaw clenched slightly and one of his eyebrows crept up just a hint. For any other man, Terry would have said that was nothing, but Jefferson was a practiced and schooled press conference politician straight through his core. He could fake a smile with the best of them, and to see that façade slip even a hair was worth noting.