Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “How do you know?” asked Captain Alston. “You some sort of doc or something?”

  Chad’s anger suddenly bubbled to the surface: “Hey, when you see everyone you care about wither and die because of some Goddamn disease, you tend to read up on it.” Chad closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. The faces of his co-workers flashed across his mind. All their families, their kids…

  “I’m sorry,” Chad said after a moment. “Didn’t mean to jump down your throat like that.”

  Captain Alston waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. You got a lot to take in at the moment.”

  Chad sighed deeply before continuing: “At any rate, those lab geeks loved to tell me how smart they were—they had to make a new round of vaccines−that’s what they froze, that’s what got pulled back to the CDC−“

  “That’s what got everyone in Atlanta killed,” muttered Deuce.

  Chad looked at the floor and after a moment of silence, said: “Last I heard, somebody in Washington determined that the bio-synthetic vaccine was too valuable to National Security or some shit. They wanted it all in the basement at the CDC for safekeeping.”

  "Figures," said Deuce. "Some REMF decides to put all the vaccine in one place right before that place gets glassed." He shook his head. "Fuckin' bureaucrats."

  Chad leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor in exhaustion. The weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders. H5N1 was back. He couldn’t even grasp that concept, let alone that some fools had actually released it on purpose, then wiped out the country’s only means of fighting back. He put his head in his hands.

  “A lot of people are going to die.”

  “A lot of people have already died…” said the Captain, sadly. “Atlanta was a big town and they glassed it during rush hour. They’re saying a half million casualties—minimum.”

  “Madre de Dio,” muttered Garza, crossing himself.

  “So why the hell are the North Koreans after you?” asked Zuka, pointing a steaming mug at Chad.

  “And how the hell did they get in-country in the first place, that’s what I want to know. Someone dropped the damn ball on that, big time,” said the Captain, disgust rippling across if his face. “Air Force was too busy getting coffee I guess.”

  Chad shook his head. “I have no clue. My God, this is a nightmare.”

  Captain Alston’s radio broke squelch:”—net, repeat: Apache Dawn is in effect…communications—”static erupted again. A moment later the anxious voice returned: “—in effect. Our satellites have been compromised, a large North Korean force including naval and air assets has invaded southern—”

  “Invaded?” asked Deuce. “Who? Taiwan?”

  “Southern what?” asked Garza.

  “—marines off the eastern seaboard. Apache Dawn is in effect—” the static came back and this time the voice didn't.

  “Anvil, this is Hammer 2, Actual, come in!” said Captain Alston. “Anvil!”

  He switched frequencies and tried again. “Anvil, this is Hammer 2, Actual, how copy?”

  The only reply was static.

  He switched frequencies again. “Hammer 2-1, this is Hammer 2, Actual, do you read me?”

  The instant reply was two breaks in squelch. Captain Alston leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. “At least we have squad-level comms. Must be only long-distance that’s been killed along with our satellites.” His brow furrowed in thought, then relaxed. “Apache Dawn…”

  “What’s that?” asked Chad.

  Captain Alston sighed. “It’s a code. It means the United States has been invaded by foreign forces. Enemy combatants on American soil. If that has happened, it’s bad juju for everyone.” He shook his head. “I just don’t get it.”

  “So we don’t know what ‘southern’ meant,” observed Zuka from his corner of the little shack.

  “I got an idea,” said the Captain. He opened a side pouch on his pack and pulled out a smartphone. “I keep this thing off for OpSec, but you never know when you’ll need it…” He turned it on and waited for it to start up.

  Chad shook his head. “Won’t work. Too many valleys and tall mountains around here – cell signals are pretty much blocked completely.”

  The phone chirped as soon as Chad stopped talking. Captain Alston grinned. “Okay…couple text messages…Ah, here’s a voicemail.” He held the phone up to his ear and his face split in a smile as he listened.

  Chad thought, I didn’t realize we were high enough up to get a signal, yet. Forgot how tall Mt. Vaught is…wish mine had worked when I needed it…

  Chad pulled out his own cell phone and noticed with a frown that its display was shattered. The battery case was fell apart in in his hands. Sighing, he tossed the worthless phone on the floor and rubbed his hands together to heat them up a bit.

  At last Captain Alston pulled the phone away from his ear. He was still smiling.

  “Good news?” asked Garza.

  “Horrible news,” said the Captain, smiling. He hit a button on the phone and the speaker phone came to life.

  “—listen to your messages, press 1. To delete, press 7—”

  The Captain pushed a button. Everyone in the little shack heard the woman’s gentle voice say, “First new message…”

  A youthful voice, tight with anxiety, came over the speaker. Chad grinned. She sounded cute. “Hey bro it’s me. We’re really in the deep-end, here. L.A. is a warzone! There’s North Korean marines all over the place, jets strafing buildings and missiles dropping out of the sky all around us. I’m not supposed to be calling you, but the hell with it, they already know where we are. We may not have much time. Look—that flu I was telling you about? It’s bad. Real bad. People who were exposed to the Blue Flu have a chance of being at least partially immune and that’s it. Everyone else seems to be incapacitated—I’m talking bed-ridden—in 48 hours or less. It’s…worse than before.”

  There was some indistinct commotion in the background followed by a big crash and static, then a lot of coughing and finally the Captain’s sister came back on the line. “Jesus, that was close. They’re still raining missiles down on the city and that one probably took out a building down the block from us. It’s like an earthquake every time one hits. But they won’t touch this hospital because…” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

  Chad imagined her crouching behind something, one hand covering the phone…

  “The President is here!” she hissed. “He caught the flu on some campaign fundraiser downtown a few days ago and the Secret Service brought him here at oh-dark-thirty this morning. He’s in real bad shape, Dee…I…I don’t know if he’s going to make it. We don’t have any of the H5N1 vaccine here and I think the antibodies in that vaccine are the only thing that can fight this new strain even, half-way! The really scary thing is we heard the President is dead on the news…but I’m sitting not thirty feet from him right now! What does that mean?”

  A different, deeper and rougher voice could be heard in the background, issuing indistinct orders. Then, quite clearly, everyone in the tiny cabin heard, “All right, people, we are leaving! Get your shit wired and prep to jump. We move as a group and we fight as a group. We’re going to cut through these fuckers—”

  Captain Alston’s sister returned: “I gotta go, the SEALs are getting us out of here. Their leader’s kinda cute,” she whispered. Chad saw Alston’s face harden.

  “We’re heading to some Air Force base around here. My new hospital—All Saint’s—it’s just not safe…God, I wish you were here. I…I love you bro,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. The shouting in the background started up again and a single shot rang out and the message ended.

  “End of new messages. To save, press—”

  The Captain clicked the button to end the call and put the phone down.

  “Uh, why you smilin’, Cap? That message sounded pretty bad, to me,” asked Deuce.

  “Donovan, wipe that confused look of
your face. We’re changing our flight plan.”

  “What? Don’t we have orders to get this guy to Spokane?” asked Garza.

  “We do. But that was before we knew everything we know now.” He stared at the cell phone in his hand. “Since we were ordered to Spokane, we have lost direct contact with HQ. We don’t even know if our ride will show up when the weather quits.”

  “I still don’t know what the hell is going on,” said Chad.

  “Well, we know everything we need to know, now,” replied Captain Alston. He held up a cold finger. “Those NKor bastards are invading southern California, which means we’re at war. That also means the Chinese are involved somehow. North Korea doesn’t take a piss without the ‘go-ahead’ from Beijing—everyone knows that. Our primary mission is to defend this nation—now, we know where to do that.”

  Another finger went up. “The President is—or was—at All Saint’s Hospital, in Los Angeles.”

  Another finger went up. “My sister is—or was—alive as of last night, at that same hospital.”

  Another finger, “Apache Dawn has been put into play. And that means we abort all other missions or tasks and get our asses to the front, get to our CO, and fight to the last man.” Captain Alston paused and looked at every man in turn. Chad watched—no one flinched or seemed to show any sign of reluctance. They were a dangerous-looking group of men.

  “Well, gentlemen, we are cut off from our CO—but now we know where our CNC is.”

  His thumb went up, “The President is with my sister, along with some Navy SEALs apparently,” his face turned sour. “Leaving aside my sister thinks one those Squids is cute,” disgust dripped from his tongue. He shook his head. “And the President’s already been declared dead—despite the fact that my sister says he’s very much alive. That tells me someone is grabbing power during this shit storm back in Washington. That don’t fly in my book.” He shook his head, glowering.

  “No, the President is alive and it looks like there’s only one thing that can save him…” He turned to look at Chad. All the Rangers looked at Chad.

  Chad put his hands up in front of him. “Whoa…hey…”

  CHAPTER 13

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House.

  ALL RIGHT THEN, EVERYONE,” said the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, a wrinkled conservative crone whose voice sounded like crumbling parchment sliding on pavement.

  Harold could almost taste the dislike the shriveled old woman was broadcasting by her body language. She held herself stiff, like a corpse wrapped in a black shroud, as if preparing herself for a very unpleasant task. He mentally shrugged, supposing for her it was unpleasant. She was one of the conservative dinosaurs that had been made irrelevant in the last few general elections, a relic of a bygone era.

  And now he would be ushered into office and assume command, leading a vast network of like-minded congressmen and women, senators, most of the Supreme Court, and the majority of American voters. President Denton had honestly tried to be moderate and at least put lipstick on his jamming of pet projects into law over the Conservatives’ cries of outrage. Harold James Barron vowed he would waste no effort over the hurt feelings of those political Neanderthals.

  Their time was over. He believed there needed to be a truly progressive future for America and he was going to build on his predecessor’s advancement of liberal ideas and make it permanent. Forget change−he was going to recreate America.

  “You don’t have to look so happy about this, you know,” the old crone hissed at him while trying to look nonchalant for the impromptu gathering of pool reporters. “We don’t even know if he’s still alive or not and you’re carrying on as if you just won the election.”

  Barron ignored the old witch and beamed for the cameras. He was mere seconds away from being sworn in as President of the United States and he was going to relish every single second.

  “Have it your way,” she sighed, shaking her gray head. Louder, to call the gathering to attention, she said: “Raise your right hand. Good. Now, repeat after me: I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States…”

  “I do solemnly swear,” he heard himself say. He was lost in the moment and while his mouth was speaking the rest of the sacred words, his mind was reeling in unabashed joy. The possibilities that lay before him staggered the mind.

  “…So help me, God.”

  “So help me, God,” Barron said, quickly pulling his hand off the Bible held in the clutches of the old hag. He idly mused what would happen if he appointed some sexy young co-ed just out of Law School to the Supreme Court. His party had the power to confirm the nomination in a heartbeat…

  “Congratulations, Mr. President,” the venomous harpy said through clenched teeth as she offered a limp, clammy handshake. Her contempt for him was palatable. “May God help us all.”

  As the cameras flashed and the reporters jockeyed for position, Harold James Barron, Esq., President of the United States took a deep breath and smiled for his new nation, he thought, rather ruefully. It was true, he was elated, but he did not want to come off as jubilant. He shook hands with the half dozen foreign dignitaries rounded up from State, and a few cabinet officials, including the Secretary of Defense.

  “Mr. President, we need to speak,” an elderly serious-looking man said in a whisper as he shook the newly sworn-in Chief Executive’s hand.

  “President Barron!” called one of the reporters. “Do you have any comment on the civil unrest reported in California? Have you—“

  “Okay everyone, the President has a full agenda today, so let’s let him get to work,” said his Chief of Staff as the press was ushered from the Oval Office. The howls of protest from the reporters were pushed aside by a small swarm of Secret Service agents that materialized out of the shadows to clear the room.

  The last flash went off and the curved door to the Oval Office hushed shut with a soft click and vanished into the curved, white wall. Harold looked fondly at the massive desk that dominated the far side of the room. It was all his. Just like Reginald had promised.

  “Sir,” began the Secretary of Defense. He started to open his briefcase.

  The President held his left hand up absently to forestall the stodgy-looking man. He continued to stare at the desk—his desk. Walking over to it, he ran his hands along its glossy, dark finish, admiring the luxurious feel of the ageless desk. It had been the throne of power, the place from which the most powerful men on the planet had dictated terms to entire nations, declared both war and peace. The pinnacle of American political power.

  He sank into the plush, leather-upholstered high-backed chair and sighed. Now he was at that pinnacle; he was that man; he was the power. He opened his eyes slowly and a smug smile crept across his face.

  “Go ahead, Albert, what have you got for me?” The President twirled in his new chair. Not a single squeak or creak. The Taxpayers had spared no expense.

  The Secretary of Defense smiled, Harold thought a bit condescendingly, and adjusted the half-glasses on the tip of his nose. “Of course, Mr. President. If you’re sure you’re ready?”

  “Proceed,” said the President with a regal wave of his hand. He twirled around in his chair again and stopped after one revolution smacking his hands on the desk. The loud slap made his Chief of Staff flinch.

  “I’m glad you like your chair, sir, because we’re on the fucking brink of World War III here.”

  The smile vanished from the President’s face. “Wh—what?” Panic gripped his heart for a split second. Reginald had said, just that morning, that everything was under control! He tried to calm his quickly accelerating heart rate.

  The Secretary of Defense sat down heavily in a richly upholstered chair across from the President’s desk. The other cabinet members, NSA, CIA, the Joint Chiefs, and his Chief of Staff all sat on the matching couches, shuffling papers and tablets. The elderly head of the Defense Department took off his glasses and glared at t
he President with rheumy eyes.

  “We have foreign soldiers in…at last count,” he looked down at his papers and held his glasses in front of his face. The crusty, balding old man fixed those hawk-like eyes on Harold again. “…Seven major American cities. Foreign soldiers, Mr. President, on American soil, attacking our cities. And that’s just what we can confirm. With most of our satellites out of commission,” he threw his hands up. “We’re basically blind, deaf and mute. We are cut off from the majority of our forces overseas. It’s like they just vanished.”

  “Is this confirmed?” the President asked. He looked over the Secretary of Defense’s shoulder and got a roomful of somber nodding heads.

  Admiral Bennet, the leader of America’s navies, stood up. “Sir,” he said, smoothing out his white dress uniform liberally coated with ribbons and medals. “We haven’t had reliable, let alone consistent communications with about 80% of our naval forces since the attack on our satellites. Mr. President, that was nearly 36 hours ago.” The nation’s top sailor rolled a shoulder and adjusted his dress uniform.

  “Ships still in port,” he continued, “have access to landlines, but any forces out at sea are…hit and miss. Sometimes we can hail a Carrier Strike Group but most of the time, all we get is static. We are—essentially—defenseless without the ability to coordinate forces.” The grizzled sailor frowned at his Air Force counterpart. “There could be entire fleets approaching our shores at this very moment and we wouldn’t know it.”

  “Don’t look at me, Roger,” said the Air Force Chief of Staff. “We’re in the dark too. We still have a secure link with the Football,” he said at the Air Force officer standing quietly at the edge of the room. The officer was holding a large briefcase, handcuffed to his left wrist. The Air Force Chief of Staff then stood up in his dress blues, with an equally large display of medals and ribbons as his Navy counterpart on his puffed out chest. He nodded toward the President.