by James Hunt
Sydney rushed back to his lab, where he immediately shut the door and locked it behind him. His cell phone had been taken upon arrival, and when he tried to dial out on the phone in the lab, his access was denied. He went to his computer, and when he attempted to send his father an email through the Coalition server, it was blocked. Sydney could feel his heart beat faster. He rubbed the pale skin on his throat. This was Gordon’s doing. He didn’t want Sydney to be able to speak to his father. And if they were trying to separate the two of them, that meant Gordon thought Sydney was a threat. And Gordon was in the habit of eliminating threats.
Using the same method that allowed him to grant Jake access to the federal databases, Sydney logged on to an overseas server to act as a cover to communicate undetected. He coded a message to his father under the disguise of spam but designed it to where it couldn’t be deleted until he clicked on it to ensure the message was delivered. If he knew his father, the man wouldn’t let anything go unchecked. Sydney didn’t have much to go on other than what he’d seen so far and Gordon’s mission to find the soil data. At the last second, he added the information about the Everett Naval Station. His father would have the connections to see if that would lead to anything.
He took one final scan of the email just to ensure everything was in place, and then Sydney clicked send. He was about to log off when he stopped. If his father couldn’t get to him in time, then he would need another way out, and since he was on lockdown, there was only one other person on the outside he could speak with. Alex.
***
Rows of sentries stood at attention as Gordon walked down the line. He looked each of them up and down. Their silent acceptance of the mission was all the approval Gordon needed. Some of them were going to die, and he was the one signing the death certificate.
“You are fighting for your lives, boys. You’re fighting for your right to continue the lifestyle that you’ve been afforded. For the past three years you have had food, clothes, shelter, and comfort. All provided to you by me,” Gordon said, finally making it to the front of the group. Here he could see the unit as an entire entity. “And now I’ve come to collect my payment. And the price is your blood. If you kill them before they kill you, then your first payment will have been accepted. If you lose, don’t bother coming back here, because I’ll be the first to put a bullet in your head. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
Their declaration of agreement resonated through the air around them. It was mechanical. A triggered response that had been predetermined to this particular question long ago. And now, Gordon’s machines would do what they were made to do. Kill.
Dean led them to their transports and the first wave of soldiers ventured south, heading for the fisheries of the Gulf Coast to test their medal against the valor of the United States Coast Guard. As the trucks left Topeka, he could feel a surge of electricity rush through him. This was his first step toward absolute power.
All of those years, toiling away as nothing but an errand boy and dealing with the sniveling bureaucrats of Washington were long behind him. He wouldn’t be taking orders from anyone. He wouldn’t have to appease multiple interests or compromise. No. He would be able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
***
Despite Dean’s size, the Kevlar around his torso was starting to feel heavy. He kept adjusting himself awkwardly in his seat. It’d been a while since he had to wear one of them. A ring of sweat had formed around his collar as the climate changed from the cool Kansas air to the thick, humid heat of Louisiana’s swamps.
The brakes squealed and the truck came to a stop. Dean’s boots splashed into the thick black mud and he trudged to the back where the rest of his men waited. His quads burned as he lumbered forward, sweat already forming on his temples from the short walk. He flipped open the tarp where the first squad of sentries sat locked and loaded. “Let’s move.”
Pair after pair of boots splashed down into the mud, spraying each sentry’s pant leg with a splatter as they marched forward. Dean moved to the second truck, and another thunder of boots crashed into the ground. Once everyone was unloaded, he addressed the unit. “Kill any man or woman that’s not a civilian. And shoot down any civilian that stands in your way.”
“Yes, sir!”
The first village was just up ahead. Shacks with shabby walls and rusty tin roofs dotted the shoreline. Small docks jutted out into the bay. A few of the fisherman came outside to see the march of sentries into their neighborhood. The solid black uniforms, automatic rifles, and lifeless stares weren’t something they were accustomed to seeing.
Each house was searched following the same guidelines as a community within the Coalition. Dean took lead on the first house. It had an elderly man and two younger sons. Dean turned over every piece of furniture in the place. One of the sons tried to stop him and was introduced to the butt of Dean’s rifle. The boy couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty, and when his body hit the ground, he didn’t get back up. The old man rushed to his son, and his other boy ran to a back room.
“Stop him!” Dean shouted.
Two sentries followed the boy, and it wasn’t long before the house erupted in gunfire. Dean rushed in to see one of his sentries on his back, clutching the Kevlar on his chest, and the boy on the opposite side of the room with four holes in his stomach and blood flowing around the revolver at his side.
“Let’s wrap it up!” Dean ordered.
After the first house there wasn’t much resistance, which Dean usually found to be the case. All it took was the first body to drop, and the rest fell into line. The village they occupied only had about ten houses, so it didn’t take long before it was secured. Once each house was searched, Dean ordered all of the people outside to address them.
“My name is Chief Dean Grout of the Soil Coalition. I am here to inform you that your fishing village is now under our jurisdiction, and you will be held to the same standards and rules as the rest of our communities.”
The salt-crusted faces staring back at him offered no signs of aggression, but also no acceptance or compliance. The brother of the boy he’d shot earlier wouldn’t take his eyes off him. Dean had seen that vehement stare on thousands of faces. The fraudulent sense of righteous strength that came with such a stare had cost its hosts their lives. Dean wondered how much longer the boy casting him that glance would last.
“A sentry will be stationed at each of your homes until the rest of our supplies arrive from Topeka. Once that happens my sentries will move out, but we will have a permanent presence in this community moving forward. All of your personal effects will be confiscated and put under the review of our Coalition board. What the board deems acceptable for you to keep will be returned to you. Any items that the board deems troublesome will be kept. There are no exceptions. There are no appeals. Their word is final.”
The boy rose from his knees, and one of Dean’s sentries shoved him back to the ground. Dean walked over to him. The blood from the previous blow to his head ran down his face. The boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen.
“You’re angry. But you can’t win this, boy. I know what you’re feeling. I do. That anger can save you. It can keep you alive, but if you don’t recognize a lost cause when you see one, then your father will be burying two sons today instead of one.”
Spit flew onto Dean’s cheek. It dribbled down the side of his face, and Dean wiped it off onto his shoulder. He pulled the pistol from his side and placed the barrel on the boy’s blood soaked forehead.
“Chief,” a sentry said.
Two Coast Guard Patrol boats cut through the calm, glass-like surface of the bay behind them. They were smaller craft, around twenty-five feet, but each carried a M240 machine gun at its bow that could fire nine hundred rounds a minute. Dean pulled the pistol off the boy’s forehead and pointed to a few sentries. “You three with me. The rest of you keep these citizens subdued.”
One sentry flanked each of Dean’s sid
es as they made their way onto the old wooden dock. The boards under his boots creaked and bowed under his weight. Once the boats were tied off, the skipper stepped out onto the dock accompanied by four of his own men. The sailors stationed at the machine guns remained where they were.
“What’s your business here?” the skipper asked.
“Coalition business. This community is now under our jurisdiction,” Dean answered.
“No, it’s not. Take your men and head back to where you came from.”
The dock was narrow, only allowing the width of two men. Each of the sailors was armed with an M-16 carbine and covered in life jackets.
“I don’t see that happening, skipper,” Dean said.
“That’s unfortunate.”
One of the skipper’s men stepped forward and before he could reach for Dean’s wrists, Dean pulled the knife from the sheath on his left leg and sliced the sailor’s throat. Blood splashed onto the dock and the two other sentries behind Dean jumped forward, shoving two more sailors into the water, where their life jackets kept them afloat long enough for a bullet to the head.
Dean rammed his blade into the skipper’s belly where it stuck, and the skipper collapsed to his knees, clutching the knife’s handle. Before the sailors manning the M240s could turn the massive guns, Dean fired his side arm, shooting a bullet into the sailor’s forehead and sending him crashing into the water where he bobbed like a lifeless buoy with his comrades. The second M240 was taken out by one of Dean’s snipers on the beach.
With the threat neutralized, Dean bent down to collect his knife from the skipper’s abdomen. The skipper’s body was motionless, but a small twitch remained on the corner of his mouth and when Dean gripped the handle and slid the blade out, the skipper moaned in torment. Dean smiled, slowing his retrieval of the knife.
“You…won’t…win…” The words came out between gargled spurts of blood, spewing from the skipper’s mouth and onto the worn dock.
Dean shoved the blade back into the skipper’s flesh. He could feel the tough muscles and tender organs that the knife pierced. The light behind the skipper’s eyes finally dimmed and the tension in his body relaxed. Dean stepped onto the boat and took inventory. The handle of the CB radio dangled from the main console. A mechanized voice repeated the same message in a hurried tone: “Marlin RB-S, come in. Marlin RB-S, what is the situation? Marlin RB-S, do you read me?”
Dean let the radio static blow through and picked up a map on the main console. Small “X”s were marked along the Gulf Coast at both the shoreline and deep sea locations. Before Dean had a chance to look it over more thoroughly, he noticed that the voice from the radio had stopped. And it was slowly replaced by the loud hum of outboard engines. Dean snatched the pair of binoculars that sat next to the map and scanned the bay around them.
“Untie the boats,” Dean said. “I need a man on the M240.”
The boat rocked as the sentries boarded. Dean started the twin 300hp engines and reversed from the dock, knocking into the heads of the dead sailors. Another Coast Guard boat was heading their way. It was the same defender class vessel Dean had commandeered. Dean ordered his men to open fire, and the molting hot shells ejected from the M240 and rolled onto the boat’s bow.
The successive thump of the machine guns was only amplified by the acoustics of the cove that surrounded them. The bullets ricocheted off the water, sending salty sprays aboard the vessel. The boat’s engines continued to whine as Dean positioned them behind the now-trapped boat.
The pursuit didn’t last long as the sentries manning the M240s obliterated the outboard engines of their enemy, causing the boat to stall. Dean pulled up beside the enemy vessel, and his sentries boarded and collected the rest of the sailor’s weapons.
Once all of the Coast Guardmen were alone in the vessel after the sentries removed their weapons, Dean motioned to the radio hanging by the console. “Tell your command what happened here.”
The skipper hesitated a moment. He pushed through his men to reach the radio. He squeezed the receiver. “This is Skipper Lucas Hart. Three vessels have been commandeered by Coalition sentries and eight of our men are dead. Our current location is 29.9500 degrees North and 90.0667 degrees West. I count twe-”
Before the skipper could finish his report, Dean pulled out his sidearm from his belt and blasted a 9mm bullet right between his eyes. The skipper’s body hit the deck of the boat and the rest of Dean’s men fired their rifles into the remaining Coast Guards.
The majority of the dead weight from the bodies rested in the back of the boat, sending a river of blood mixed with salt water draining out the rear console. Dean waded through the stream of death and reached under the back of the motors and pulled the drain plug out, which flooded the hull with seawater. As the boat began its slow descent into the bayou, Dean tied off a piece of rope to one of the cleats and went around each of the dead Coast Guard’s waists, tethering them to the sinking ship. The back of the distressed vessel went under first, and the bodies floated for a little longer before the rope tying them to their sinking grave submerged them, too.
Chapter 9
The cloudy skies cast Everett Naval Station in a melancholy haze. The limited amount of sunlight that the overcast sky above let through was just enough to let you know it was still daylight, but not enough to break through the minds of the vacant-eyed wanderers that Jake passed. The bodies here seemed to move a little slower than the coastal towns of San Francisco.
Jake had watched the area for a few hours since early in the morning and from what he could see, the Naval Station was fully staffed and properly guarded. He popped another caffeine pill into his mouth to ward off the heaviness of his eyelids and continued the caffeine high he’d been riding for the past thirty-six hours.
Aside from the dark circles under Jake’s eyes and the slight twitch that had developed at the corner of his mouth, the lack of sleep hadn’t dulled his focus. Inside that station were answers to questions that he wanted, and there wasn’t anything that was going to stop him.
After a quick scan of the rest of the perimeter, Jake determined that the fastest way to get what he wanted was to walk right through the front gate. He took off his jacket, then removed his holster and tucked it under an old oil drum in a thick layer of brush fifty yards from the base and away from any prying eyes.
Jake put his jacket back on and cracked his neck left, then right, relieving some of the pressure on his neck and back. He cracked his knuckles and stepped out of the thick brush and marched toward the front gate. Upon his approach, one of the guards stepped out of the station.
“Can I help you, sir?” the soldier asked.
“Yeah, I think you can,” Jake answered, then quickly threw his fist into the soldier’s nose, breaking it. The soldier hit the ground hard. Immediately after throwing the first punch, the other guard aimed his rifle at Jake, who put his hands behind his head and went down on his knees.
“On the ground!” the second soldier commanded.
Jake complied as the soldier he punched slowly pushed himself off the ground. His blood-soaked and disfigured nose was centered between a very angry pair of eyes.
Once the cuffs were thrown on, Jake was escorted onto the base and taken to a room in one of the main office buildings. The entire base seemed to be covered in a mixture of rust and algae. The pavement under Jake’s feet was cracked and worn. They passed a large field of dirt, but Jake noticed a few white lumps arranged in a diamond pattern. With no grass or clay, it took him a minute to realize it was a baseball field. The chain-link fence that wrapped around it had long since buckled, and the stands where spectators watched the game had collapsed.
The interior of the buildings weren’t much better. Faded cubicles and old computers filled the offices, but one thing that Jake noticed was the lack of personnel. There was hardly anyone inside, with the exception of a few officers walking through the hallway.
The two MPs that had taken Jake inside the building shoved him in
side a smaller room, then cuffed him to the table, which was cemented to the floor. “Hey! I want to speak with Commander Claire, understand? Tell him it’s about his sister!” The MPs slammed the door shut, locking Jake inside.
Jake tugged at the cuffs now chained to the desk. The obligatory investigative calls would be made and once it was found out exactly who Jake was and who he worked for, he hoped that it was enough to get the Commander down here in person. If not, then the addition of throwing his sister’s name around would most definitely have caught his attention.
With no clock on the wall and no watch on his wrist, Jake wasn’t sure how much time had passed before a stout, clean-shaven, green-eyed officer stepped into the room by himself. Before the officer shut the door, Jake could see another cluster of soldiers behind him in the hallway. The name on the front of the officer’s uniform read “Cmd. Claire.”
“You don’t want your bodyguards in here with you, Commander?” Jake asked.
“I don’t think I’ll need them, Jake.”
“So, you did your homework before coming to visit.”
“Well, it’s not every day a high ranking member of the Soil Coalition punches one of my guards in the face, and then asks for me by name.”
Commander Claire kept his hands behind his back. The stance exemplified the superiority of an officer with the remnants of a soldier who had served on the front lines.
“What do you want?” Claire asked.
“Your sister.”
“You should choose your next words very carefully.”
Jake took a seat on the edge of the table, his hands still pulled low from the cuffs. “It’s interesting to me that the daughter of a lieutenant general, and the sister of a commander in the United States Navy, is stuck in a Soil Coalition community in the middle of Wyoming, with no records of her past in our databases at all. So what is it? The two of you have a falling out? She fuck one of your buddies?”