by Dave Lund
Lead M-ATV, Coronado, CA
The rings of fencing between the road and the airport were destroyed, making the drive onto the airfield much easier than it would have been before. Aymond turned right, looked at the compass and drove due north, straight across the runways, the pedal pinned to the floor. The open expanse of the airfield gave the illusion that they were crawling at a snail’s pace towards the other side.
“Chief, go right … RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!” Snow yelled, pivoting the turret with the turning truck towards the northwest corner of the airfield. Just past the edge of the runway sat a radar truck. It was facing away from the fire; the IR on the turret worked and Snow could see two men standing beside the back of the truck, facing towards the front of the truck, rifles in their hands.
“They must be watching for anything that gets past the truck.”
“Yeah, probably, Chief.”
Aymond keyed the radio. “Two tangos, one each side.”
“Copy, tangos in sight, straight approach, about a hundred meters and we’ve got them.”
Hammer looked at Gonzo; they gave each other a quick fist bump and braced their M4s on the roof of the cab, waiting for Aymond to stop so they could fire with accuracy. Their bodies pushed against the back of the cab as Aymond stomped on the brakes, the heavy truck shuddering to a stop. Gonzo and Hammer both fired quickly, both men by the truck falling dead.
Gonzo and Hammer leapt out of the back of the M-ATV and ran forward in a combat crouch, their M4s pointed towards the truck. The back of the truck was a box, and on the box a door, much like the radar trucks that both of the Marines were used to seeing used by Coalition forces.
The door opened and a man got out, lighting a cigarette as he stepped off the bumper. The bright light from the interior of the box spilled out into the darkness. Hammer and Gonzo kept approaching, trusting the man’s night blindness from the transition from light to dark to give them an edge; they needed him to step forward a little further so they could get the angle and not have a round bounce through the interior of the control box.
The soldier looked down and saw his fallen comrade. He spit out what sounded like an expletive and crouched to check on him. Hammer shot twice, the man’s head rupturing across the tarmac from the bullet’s impact. They continued towards the truck, Gonzo heading straight for the bright interior of the box, Hammer angling towards the truck’s cab.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
Aymond smiled. “Copy all clear.”
The sharp staccato strikes of metal against the armored cab of the M-ATV caught Snow by surprise, as he’d been watching his buddies take down the truck through the remote turret’s viewer; he spun the turret towards the rear, finding muzzle flashes from a truck barreling towards them on the runway.
“Technical approaching fast from the west, Chief.”
Aymond keyed his mic. “Move it double time Dagger-One. ETA?”
“On the north, stand by, clearing fence.”
Jones fired the M2 in a long burst, slowly rotating the turret, ripping through the mass of Zeds around the truck. “NOW!”
Happy and Chuck opened the rear doors and each threw a soda can at the fence, slamming the doors shut quickly. Simmons, the truck already in reverse, stomped on the gas, the tires chirping against the pavement as the truck launched backwards and across Pacific Highway. The IEDs in the soda cans exploded, blowing the fence backwards, opening a wide gap.
Simmons stomped on the gas again, this time in drive, and drove through the open fence, around the radar truck and towards the other M-ATV, the M2 firing short bursts at the pursuing PLA vehicle. Snow in the other M-ATV was doing the same, more rounds slapping the armor against the outside of both trucks. Snow and Jones turned their turrets outwards and each saw a half-dozen vehicles racing towards them, small arms fire flashing from each of them.
Simmons cranked the wheel. “Turning around, Jones.”
Jones spun the turret to match the turning truck, both M-ATVs racing after the radar truck.
Radar Truck, Coronado, CA
Hammer keyed his radio, “Hey Gonzo, how far do you think the beam or whatever will reach?”
Gonzo, still in the truck box and separated from the cab, said, “I have no idea, guy.”
“Is it turned on?”
“She just ordered the lobster so she better be.”
“No, seriously asshole, what’s your status.”
“I can’t read a fucking thing in here and it looks like the inside of the space shuttle, but I think it’s on.”
“Dagger … uh, fuck, Gonzo, Chief.”
Aymond drove behind the radar truck, Simmons’ M-ATV behind him. “Go Gonzo.”
“Chief, how slow can we go?”
Jones keyed the radio. “Not very unless you like eating Chinese food.”
Gonzo keyed his radio. “Tell us when we can’t keep the lead and we’ll take the second position, but if you can keep them off our ass I want to start at a slow-ish speed and see how well this thing works on the roll; we can keep speeding up until we find the limit. Good to go, Chief?”
Aymond looked at Snow, who shrugged and fired off another burst from the M2.
“Sure Gonzo, but make the test snappy.”
Hammer turned and followed the planned route back, even though he had a new ride.
Chuck keyed the radio. “When you get to the Coronado Bridge take the middle; at the Welcome Navy Base walkway go right lane, left lane, and watch for the goddamned garden hose.”
Both of the trailing M-ATVs gave room to the radar truck, running interference from the chasing force, long bursts of the M2 ripping into the leading elements. Spent casings from the heavy machine guns rattled off the roof of the truck, ammo links falling to the road.
The radar truck gradually sped up, an invisible hand in front of them slapping the dead to the ground, the truck having to swerve wildly to keep from running over the bodies as they fell.
Hammer keyed the radio. “This isn’t working, the Zeds are falling right in our path! We need to form it up and haul ass … Gonzo, can you get the transmitter down?”
“Working on it!”
Simmons sped up and took the lead position, Aymond falling in line and tight behind the radar truck. They all sped up, Jones sweeping left and right with the M2 as they drove along Harbor Drive.
Hammer: “Chief, are they taking the bait?”
“Snow?”
“Yeah Chief, they’re trailing behind us, but we’re gaining some distance, about three hundred yards now.”
“Hammer, they’re following, keep this speed if you can.”
“Roger, Chief.”
The further they drove from the airport and the destroyed ship, the fewer Zeds they had to drive around. Passing the Hilton, the road was practically clear. Moments later the convoy took the dirt median as they passed under the Coronado Bridge, the convoy taking the right lanes in preparation for the next IED line. Snow watched as the pursuing vehicles raced up both sides of the street. The first vehicles sped past the bridge, as did the second group of vehicles, but the third row of vehicles nearly disappeared in a cloud of dust, the vehicles behind them crashing into the rear of the destroyed vehicles ahead of them. Either unaware or indifferent to their comrades, the remaining four vehicles sped up, trying to gain ground against the convoy. Snow fired controlled bursts, trying to conserve ammo now that the worst of the fight was over, the following vehicles ignoring the machine gun fire.
Simmons approached the pedestrian bridge with the last IEDs, slowing and turning hard left to zig-zag around the barely visible garden hoses across the roadway. The radar truck and the last M-ATV did the same. When they slowed the chasing vehicles grew closer, small arms fire slapping against the armor. They were still spread across both sides of the street, and the IEDs detonated when the first vehicles reached the garden hoses, the concrete pedestrian bridge falling on the other two. Snow watched the dust settle and scanned ahead for more threats, and
in the sky for any more helicopters.
“We’re all clear, Chief.”
Aymond smiled and keyed the radio. “Slow it down, Simmons, we’re all clear. Good job Raiders.” He thought about the radar truck, concerned that it could have a tracking device, as they’d thought the Jeep might have, but no one came looking for the patrol boat … no, not worth the chance.
“Simmons, tell me about that home improvement store.”
CHAPTER 14
SSC, Ennis, TX
March 17, Year 1
Amanda stood on the roof of the armored loader, facing the south, steam rising from her body in the cold air. Hands clutching her M4 rifle, she scanned her surroundings; the original gate for the park was behind her, and her shadow stretched long across the abandoned farmer’s fields on the other side of the HESCO barriers. She was done with the first round of barricades and fence repairs. Waxahachie Creek Park, modified to conceal the facility’s presence, was never meant to be a part of the facility’s use. The designers had seen a different future in the facility’s role and the survival of the country. The ability to step out of the underground bunker six months from the start of war to reclaim the abandoned land had changed, since the land had been claimed by the armies of marching dead.
The problem now is we need to begin sectioning off parcels of land, between pasture and plowed. The first few growing seasons will be rough and we’ll have to start small; most of the work will have to be completed by hand. My hands alone can’t do it. I need people, tens … no hundreds of people willing to work hard to claim the land for the living once again.
Viewing the expanse of farmland stretching acres and acres from the left to right and nearly as far out as one could see, Amanda thought of the ancients, the first cities. Walled to protect the people from invaders, surrounded by farmland, near a good water source and home to all who swore allegiance … we’ve been thrust backwards in history thousands of years. The failed modern world surrounded by basic humanity attempting to survive … God help us.
People were one problem, the other was gear. Amanda knew about agriculture, but she wasn’t a farmer, she was the SecAg—the former Secretary of Agriculture. As a manager, an executive, she set policy. She needed to be more hands on now. First she needed information, she needed equipment that survived the EMP, she needed people, and she needed supplies, seeds, knowledge, and labor.
Seeds. She wasn’t sure where she could find seeds; they weren’t a part of the stored goods in the facility, but looking at all the farmland she had to assume there was a co-op or a feed store nearby; surely there was. As for knowledge, wisdom of the land, that was most likely gone unless farmers had survived. She needed books, references. Her mind spun with a list of what she would have to learn: weather, planting rotations, planting seasons, planting techniques, harvesting techniques, preservation of crops, long-term storage of crops, repair manuals for old tractors and machinery … she had to go into town and raid the library and maybe the next town over, and maybe a book store.
For all the technology she had underground, for all the supplies she had, for all the weapons of war at her disposal, Amanda needed the one thing that a prepper couldn’t put in their long-term storage and let rest: skills.
Groom Lake, NV
“Bexar is better at this than I am.”
“He should be here soon; when he arrives, then he can join you.”
“Jake, how are we supposed to set up a range and training facilities when we don’t even have the surface buildings cleared yet?”
“That’s the problem we have, Jessie. We need people who are trained and able to take care of these sorts of problems on the surface, but in order to have room to train we need to be on the surface. I was hoping you and Sarah could come up with a solution.”
“Who do you have that I could trust; someone who already has a clue?”
“On average we have twenty new people arriving every single day. That’s nearly a hundred and fifty people a week. Some of those people should be able to help, I’m sure they have the skill.”
“No Jake, who do you trust?”
Jake looked at Jessie for a moment before responding, the faces in his head flipping past like an old Rolodex, all of them with a dark red line across the photograph because they were dead, before stopping on one.
“Jason. Jason is someone I trust; he fought alongside of me in Cortez. He’s someone who can help you.”
“Jason, the teenager?”
“Yes him, he’s our greeter right now, but we can rotate someone else into that job.”
“He was like a leaf, shaking in the wind, and unstable when we arrived.”
“Jessie, I promise you he’s rock solid. His wife died as we fled Cortez, she ‘came back’ while on the plane and he watched as one of the PJ’s, the Air Force guys, put her down for good. He’s just been through a lot, but he did some incredible things under fire while fighting the cult in Cortez.”
“He doesn’t even look old enough to have been married; besides. we’ve all been through a lot, guy.”
Jake’s mind flashed with the image of his wife’s face, the glow in his eyes dimming for a moment. “Yes Jessie, yes we have.”
Coronado, CA
The PLA radar truck, now stashed in the home improvement store, was a safe enough distance away from the Marines even if it was being tracked. After retrieving the Humvee and getting back to their compound, they quickly hid the trucks and any evidence of where they were located. Just as Aymond suspected, the remaining helicopters, men, and trucks moved rapidly across the area.
Like an angry colony of fire ants after their mound was cut down by a lawn mower, the PLA swarmed, looking for the culprits from the attack and raid during the night. Aymond stood in the dark shadows away from the second-story window, the blinds cracked slightly, binoculars to his face. His gaze was towards the north, where the current operating base of the PLA was.
Fires still burned, but it looked like much of the damage they had caused the previous night was being repaired. He smiled at the thought. No amount of repairs can reclaim all the damaged material the enemy needs; the ships, access to the harbor, and all the containers of equipment, food and who knows what else. This was a major setback to our enemy.
The first enemy, the dead, had for a while become their ally. The Zeds overran the PLA’s position and, as evident by the bodies being burned, had apparently killed quite the number of men.
All of this was great news, but Aymond knew for all of their success they would have to hunker down and stay invisible for a few days. Any activity might tip their hand, and even though they were ready to evac immediately, the resources left by the SEAL Teams were just too good; he didn’t want to give them up. As far as he knew the PLA didn’t even know what this building was.
Before rotating into a combat sleep schedule, all the men cleaned their gear and weapons, refilling magazines with fresh ammo and making notes for their known inventory. Although the supply cache was good, it was far from unlimited. We could do a run to Pendleton for more … but we would need to pass the PLA position. No, we need to simply eliminate the threat with what we have on hand; we need to be creative. We were creative and it was awesome.
Exiting the office, Aymond walked along the hall to a window that faced away from the rising sun and out across the ocean, the sky falling into the water’s edge far out into the horizon. I still don’t understand why the PLA’s naval assets aren’t here; it seems ludicrous that they would have a supply convoy with no escort … unless they are fighting their own war further up the coast or somewhere else. I can’t operate in the blind like this; I need information, I—WE need to make contact with other elements. This needs to be a coordinated fight.
CHAPTER 15
Groom Lake, NV
March 18, Year 1
Jake offered a conference room for the training, but it seemed too enclosed, too much like something a corporation would set up, like someone was going to show a PowerPoint presentation
. Instead, they chose the cavernous supply warehouse, which appeared to continue nearly to infinity, a black dot at the end of the rows of supplies and equipment. Shane, one of the earliest arrivals to Groom Lake, worked on the quartermasters’ team, trying to not only inventory what was held in storage, but keep track of what each member of their underground community was issued and making sure it was signed for. The computer appeared new, but the all-steel desk he sat at appeared to be from the Eisenhower administration.
Jake made the introductions of the group before continuing. “So these guys are going to need whatever it is we have. Weapons, ammo, military gear … frankly, I don’t even know what all we have here.” Turning to Jessie, he said, “For all I know we could have a colony of aliens living out of a flying RV in the back of the warehouse and we wouldn’t know it.”
No one laughed at the joke; Jake played it off and looked at Shane. “Once they have their own needs met, we’ll slowly be adding more people to the project, although I’m not sure how many yet. Do we have everything they’ll need, or do we even know yet?”
Shane ignored the computer and flipped through a smudged spiral notebook full of scratched-out writing. “Ammo we have—we have enough to fight off a goddamned invasion—same with M-16s … whatever else they need, well, when they figure out what it is we’ll have to figure out if we have it. We probably do, it seems like we have everything but vehicles.”
Jason rocked back and forth on his feet nervously, not sure what to think of his new task or the women he had only recently met.
Sarah spoke up. “We’re not soldiers; are there any manuals or books or anything on how to use any of this stuff?”