by James Rosone
Marcy sighed. It was no secret he’d been angered by the cheering and support for the Canadian and Chinese soldiers passing through their city, and she didn’t disagree with him. However, his job at the city still seemed safe, and she hoped he wouldn’t spout off to the wrong person and put them in harm’s way.
Just as Jake was about to hop into his truck, one of their neighbors, Garret, walked over.
“Hey, Jake. I saw you boarding the place up. What gives? Something I should know about?”
Garret fit all the stereotypes of a granola liberal yogi, even down to the man bun. He and his wife owned five or six yoga studios throughout the county. He was a nice enough guy as long as the conversation stayed away from religion, politics, and guns. Marcy held her breath.
“Hi, Garret. I’m actually glad you stopped by,” said Jake in a friendly tone. He motioned for him to come closer.
When Garret reached his open door, Jake replied in a hushed tone. “Garret, you know I work for the county, right?” he asked.
Garret nodded. He had a look of concern on his face, but he didn’t say anything.
“Yesterday, we had some soldiers from the UN come to our office. They told us employees that we should take some precautions to keep ourselves safe. They said they had heard reports that some local militia members might try to harm, or worse, kill people they viewed as collaborators with the UN.”
Garret looked shocked, then angry. “I can’t believe those right-wingers would harm folks like you. I mean, you’re just doing your job for the county.”
Grimacing as he nodded, Jake put his hand on Garret’s shoulder as he added, “I know. It’s terrible. I’m just a city engineer, but I have Marcy to think about. One of the Canadian soldiers told me they’re setting up a safe place for some of us to stay with our families if we believe we might be in danger, so I’m taking them up on their offer.”
Garret looked surprised, then pleased. “Wow. That’s great that they’re going to help you guys out and keep you safe from those crazy Sachs supporters. I swear those people are going to cause problems, Jake. So how long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“Um. I honestly don’t know, Garret. They just told us to pack up some valuables and head to their location. I hope you don’t mind me not telling you where we’re going. They said it needs to stay a secret for security purposes. But, if you could do me a huge favor...,” Jake said as his voice trailed off.
“Sure. Anything, Jake,” Garret replied warmly. He appeared to have a new sense of respect for his neighbor now that he was being “protected by the UN.”
“If you can help look out for the place, I’d greatly appreciate it. I know I’ll be able to focus on my duties with the UN a lot easier if I know some of our supporters are looking after our house. I mean, it’s boarded up and all, but if you see anything odd, you can call me at work. My number hasn’t changed, and it still works. At least until those Sachs supporters find a way to disable our lines.”
Marcy struggled to keep herself from laughing at the overt embellishment Jake had added to his story. She watched as her husband handed Garret one of his business cards with his direct line on it.
“Yeah, man. You can count on me, Jake. Thanks for telling me. And thanks for working with the UN. I’m sure things will get sorted soon enough. Tate will be our president soon, and this will just be a hiccup. You wait and see.”
Jake shook Garret’s hand. “Well, I need to get going to the location. I’ll talk with you later, man, when this is all sorted. We’ll have you guys over for some wine and cheese. Now that I’m officially working for the UN, I’m going to try and use those privileges to see if I can’t get some wine and specialty cheeses from across the border.”
Garret shook his head in amusement, “Well, if they’re looking for more people, tell them I’d be interested in a job. Talk to you later, neighbor.”
A minute later, Jake was back in his truck and headed out of the neighborhood. Marcy turned to look at him and busted a gut laughing. They both did. They laughed so hard they were crying. It felt good to let go of some of the tension they’d both been feeling.
Marcy knew that Jake was doing something to help his old National Guard unit in their efforts to disrupt the UN, but she’d figured that the less she knew, the better. She’d rather help support him in other ways and maintain her plausible deniability.
*******
From the Bellingham Herald:
City officials have warned that the United Nations still has not found the source of the IED attacks that have been cropping up across the county. In total, six bombs have now exploded, killing more than thirty UN soldiers and wounding close to twice that many. Although the attacks seem to be directed at the peacekeeping force, citizens should reduce travel to only that which is absolutely necessary. If you see any suspicious activities, especially along roadways, please contact your local law enforcement immediately.
*******
Bethesda, Maryland
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center
A few dozen armed Marines fanned out around the hospital helipad as a small fleet of flying contraptions made their way toward them. There was a V-22 Osprey in the center, with four attack helicopters flanking it. Behind the first wave of helicopters were four additional V-22s and another group of attack helicopters. Whatever was heading toward the hospital was bringing a lot of firepower.
The first group of helicopters flew over the hospital grounds and loitered in a high orbit while the group of four V-22s landed. They offloaded another company of Marines to add to the group that had already shown up at the hospital.
Then a lone Osprey landed while the attack helicopters hovered nearby, their chin guns at the ready. A swarm of doctors and nurses, ready to treat the four survivors of the Raven Rock facility, rushed forward. After being trapped in the tunnel for nearly seven days, all four of the men were dehydrated and malnourished.
The first person off the helicopter was General Austin Peterson. The injury to his right leg seemed to have developed an infection, and in the daylight, it was a bit more evident that he was now pale and running a fever. He was rushed off to surgery on a gurney. The remaining three men walked out of the helicopter themselves, sporting only minor lacerations and injuries.
When President Jonathan Sachs exited the Osprey, several of the nurses and doctors nearby gasped. It was a shock to see him alive at all, but he was nearly unrecognizable in his dirty, disheveled, and exhausted state. The medical personnel on the helipad obviously realized at that point why there were so many Marines and Secret Service present at the hospital, and they were visibly moved by the knowledge that the President hadn’t been killed during the first day of the war.
The doctors and nurses insisted that their three new patients sit down in wheelchairs, despite complaints from each of them that they could walk on their own. With Lieutenant Commander Bullard, Agent Harrison, and President Sachs seated, they were quickly whisked off toward an examination room in the secure wing of the hospital.
Once the doors on the rooftop opened, a dozen heavily armed Marines led the way, making sure the patients were led down the path that they had already cleared. A phalanx of Secret Service agents moved in sync with the doctor and nurses attending the President. Behind them, another platoon of Marines followed, determined to make sure no one was able to breach their protective perimeter of the President ever again.
With the massive increase in security and the whirling thumping of helicopter blades churning above, everyone in the building assumed that the acting President must be paying a visit to some of the wounded. However, as people spotted Jonathan Sachs, the man they all believed had been assassinated, the rumor mill spread like wildfire.
*******
From Reuters Online:
Unconfirmed reports are coming from Walter Reed Medical Center that a group of four survivors was found in the tunnel system under the DoD’s Raven Rock facility. The survivors were purportedly flown to the mi
litary hospital so they could be treated for their injuries. A nurse working at the hospital has revealed to us that she saw a disheveled-looking President Jonathan Sachs brought into an examination room along with two other men. As of the time of this publication, we have not been able to confirm this information with the Pentagon, Walter Reed, the Secret Service, or the White House. If it is indeed true that President Sachs survived the attempt on his life, this would be an incredible turn of events.
*******
Camp Blanding, Florida
“No. That’s not acceptable. You’re going to do it again,” Seth said in a firm yet commanding voice. He looked sternly at the young female recruit standing next to him.
She grunted in frustration. “I’m trying my best, sir,” she complained. “I just seem to be a terrible shot. I don’t know why. I’m pretty decent with the M4.”
Recruit Amber Ryder had been about to fail her pistol qualification for the second time when Seth had taken a moment to talk with her on the side to see what the problem was.
Smiling, Seth took the pistol from her and motioned for her to follow him down to the end of the firing line, away from the other recruits. He signaled for one of the range sergeants to follow him as well. When they reached the last firing position, he placed the Sig Sauer on the table along with three fresh magazines.
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “You do know the difference between a clip and a magazine, right?” he asked.
“Is that a trick question, sir?” she responded with a coy smile.
“No. Just testing you,” he replied. Seth did his best to maintain a serious expression.
“A magazine is what we place in a rifle or handgun. A clip is a strip of ammo we use to load our magazines.”
Seth smiled. “See? If we can teach you civilians the difference, then we can certainly teach you how to shoot. Now, I’ve watched you fire the M4, and you do just fine. So, what’s the problem with the pistol? What are you uncomfortable with?”
“I guess it just kicks too much. I think I’m flinching right before it fires in anticipation of it kicking, and it causes me to miss.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly what you’re doing, Ryder. You’re afraid it’s going to kick in your hand, and it causes you to flinch in anticipation. So, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you over your fear of it kicking. Once you become used to it, it won’t faze you. You’ll be able to pick it up and just shoot.”
Seth motioned for one of the sergeants nearby to bring them a dozen more magazines for the Sig, along with more ammo. Then Seth had her run through several mags. He had her alternate between firing each bullet one at a time with practiced aim and rapidly firing the pistol to empty the magazine as fast as she could. He showed her some tips for how to grip the weapon differently so that she could control how it felt in her hand.
By the end of the hour, she had run through nearly two hundred rounds of 9mm ammo and had improved her shooting form to where he believed she could now qualify. Seth had her go back to the qualifying lane for her last and final try to qualify with the Sig. It was a requirement for her to graduate training, and Seth was determined not to let any of their recruits fail. In his mind, if a recruit didn’t pass, it was because either he’d failed them as an instructor or he’d failed to properly motivate them—in either case, failure was simply not an option in the Special Forces world.
Seth stood behind and to the side of Recruit Ryder. He watched with satisfaction as she shot one of the best scores of the day. When she passed him, she smiled and thanked him before she headed off to rejoin the other recruits, who were busy disassembling their pistols to start the tedious process of cleaning them.
Sergeant Major Wilcock walked up to Seth. “You did good, sir. I thought she was going to be our first failure of this training program.”
Turning to look at his sergeant major, Seth leaned in so no one else could hear. “No failures, Wilcock. We’ve got to get these folks ready for whatever is going to be thrown at them.”
The gruff-looking sergeant major nodded, then spat a stream of tobacco juice to his left. “You’re right, sir. I’ll make sure we give the ones struggling on the range more practice if that’s what it’ll take.” His expression soured. “My concern is we’re pushing them through training faster than they’re ready for it. We normally spend ten weeks training a raw recruit to be a soldier, and another two to six months for their advanced training before they’re even sent to a line unit. Right now, we’re pushing these recruits through in four weeks—it’s just silly.”
“I agree, Sergeant Major, but look at it this way—these recruits are gearing up to be security augmenters, not combat soldiers. This isn’t Afghanistan. We’re not training a bunch of illiterate farmers and shepherds to go fight the Taliban. Just keep riding them hard, and let’s make sure we’re turning out the best possible recruits we can, all right? If you need to draw more ammo from supply—or hell, the local economy—then do it. But no weapon failures.”
The sergeant major nodded and then proceeded to berate a recruit for not properly handling their weapon as the next group prepared to qualify with their Sigs.
Smiling at the interlude between the senior NCO and the raw recruit, Seth moved on to the next batch of recruits in training. He walked over to a group being schooled by a couple of their Special Forces trainers on the art of hand-to-hand fighting. The difference between what they were teaching the trainees and what they would normally learn in the civilian world was that their instructors weren’t teaching them how to score points or subdue an attacker; they were teaching them how to disarm an aggressor and kill them. There was no pussyfooting around in this training.
“Remember, recruits, your job is to not let the enemy get close enough that you have to rely on this training,” bellowed one of the Special Forces sergeants. “If you have to rely on this training, then you’ve already screwed up. Your best weapon is distance. You keep the enemy at bay, and you take ’em out with carefully aimed shots from your rifle or your pistol. You don’t let the bastards get right up on you. You hear me, recruits?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” the group collectively yelled in response.
Hearing someone run up behind him, Seth turned to see his XO, a senior captain. “What’s up, XO?” he asked.
“Sir, you’re not going to believe it. They’re reporting in the news that President Sachs wasn’t killed. They found him alive, buried in the tunnel underneath Raven Rock. He’s at Walter Reed, being checked on now.”
“Holy crap…I can’t believe he survived. I’ll tell you what, XO—that is one tough man to kill.”
“Yeah, no joke. Oh, by the way, I heard some scuttlebutt from a friend of mine still back at SOCOM. Rumor has it we may not be turning our recruits over to DHS after all.”
That news came as a bit of a shock. Seth looked around, wanting to make sure no one else could hear them talking. “What do you mean? Isn’t that the whole reason why we’re out here?” he asked, waving his arm toward the trainees.
“My friend says the new SecDef, Howell, is pushing the acting President to reverse the original DHS plan and have the recruits formed up into DoD militia units to help augment the National Guard and active-duty units.” The XO held up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t know how that’s any different than just throwing draftees at the units and calling it a day, but apparently the new guy at the Pentagon wants to ramp up a militia force to use for this crisis and then quickly demobilize them when it’s done.”
Seth snorted. “Sounds like another politician who hasn’t served in the military coming up with some harebrained idea,” he retorted. Seth looked off in the distance for a second before he returned his gaze to his XO. “All right. For the time being, keep this to yourself. We’ll continue to do what we’re doing and get these recruits ready for the original mission until we’re told otherwise. I’d think if this idea had any merits, our FBI instructors would’ve heard about it as well, but they hav
en’t said anything to us.”
His XO nodded. “Makes sense to me, sir. Just wanted to pass along what I was hearing.”
The two of them walked back to their main office. When Seth was alone, he made a quick call back to SOCOM to try and get the skinny on what was really going on.
*******
Ottawa, Canada
Lord Elgin Hotel
Marshall Tate heard his Chief of Staff, Jerome Powell, let out a raucous stream of profanity in the next room. His stomach sank. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. He took a deep breath and walked over.
“What is it, Jerome?” he asked. But in that exact moment, he glanced at the TV and saw the scrolling headline at the bottom. There was his answer.
“Sachs is alive?” he asked incredulously. “Didn’t they hit Raven Rock with four bunker-busting bombs?”
Jerome swore a few more times and then slapped his fist down on the conference table. He didn’t seem to be able to speak using coherent sentences.
Tate didn’t want to wait for him to calm down. He grabbed the phone. It rang twice.
“Admiral David Hill,” said his Secretary of Defense.
“Are you watching the news?” Tate asked.
“No, sir,” he replied. “But I can turn it on now.”
“Don’t bother. Sachs is alive.”
“What?” Admiral Hill asked, clearly as shocked at the news as Tate was himself.
“You heard me. He survived the attack.”
A torrent of obscenities attacked Tate’s ears. He moved the phone a bit further from his ear. When Admiral Hill paused to catch his breath, Tate said, “Jerome felt the same way. Now, you and General McKenzie are the ones who got us into this mess—how do you plan on getting us out?”
An awkward pause ensued. “Well?” Tate practically barked.
“I’m going to have to get back to you, sir.”
“You struck at the King and you missed, Hill. Now Sachs is going to be angrier than ever. You went against me, and there’s going to be hell to pay. Not only is Sachs alive, but the people no longer see us as liberators.” He swore. “The next time I talk to you, there’d better be a plan in place, or you’re going to regret the day you were born.” Then he hung up the phone—wishing the old receiver phones were still in style so he could slam it down in his frustration.