911: The Complete Series

by Grace Hamilton

  When Parker had busted out of the prison, before he’d gotten half a mile, he’d run into Gace and the other Mandingos. With Calhoun’s help, they’d broken into the armory and made their way out of the prison with only light causalities. Even Henshaw, the trustee janitor who’d been threatened with fire to get Parker talking, was with them. Understandably, that stunt had turned him into one of the prison’s angrier escapees. If they’d expected him to feel threatened and return to his usual accommodating self, they had sorely underestimated him.

  At first, the escapees had scattered off the road to evade what they’d thought were FEMA forces, but when Parker had stuck his head through the shattered windshield, his face slick with rain, and called to Gace, they’d sprinted from the trees and climbed into the truck. If the road they’d escaped along, following Calhoun’s directions, hadn’t curved toward the back of the prison, he never would have met up with them, and so Parker had to think that that had been part of her plan, on some level—even if he had driven out through the front, the prison’s meandering road would have reconnected them, given time.

  After that, Parker had driven as hard as he could, for as long as he’d dared, before they’d dumped the truck thirty miles outside of Indianapolis and spent the night in an abandoned school. Three Mandingos—Face, Slammer, and Silverdollar—had gone in search of food and fresh clothes while Parker had explained to Gace and the others what had happened to Kleet.

  Gace’s anger was hot and hard, and Parker thought maybe the retribution for Kleet’s demise might be directed at him. That wasn’t the case, however. Eventually, Gace stopped punching holes in walls and assumed command of the Mandingo gang.

  They were mountains of men, their bodies a testament to the constant workouts undertaken to relieve the tedium of prison life. Some had been there many years and were as fit and fierce now as they’d been before their incarcerations. They were dealers, pimps, runners, protection racketeers, rapists, and murderers—but they were also all Parker had to help him fight back against the Council.

  And they were ready to fight.

  They wanted to avenge the death of their leader, to somehow immortalize his honor, and they all took their lead from Gace, who approved of Parker. The man respected the way Parker had taken all the shit the Council had thrown at him, and how he had stood up to Gace on the first day they’d met.

  As a result, Gace had promised the Mandingos’ service to Parker for the duration of the mission—and even though they were men across the divide from Parker in every possible way, he knew their code wouldn’t allow them to refuse. Wherever they’d come from, whatever they’d done, these guys were better men than the Council in every conceivable way.

  On Thursday morning, the Council had produced a leaflet, reading: Public Execution of the Traitor James Parker will take place on Saturday at the State House in Indianapolis to coincide with the reinstatement of radio and TV transmissions across the nation, for those who can still receive them.

  “How dey gonna execute you, if’n they ain’t got you?” Gace had asked quite reasonably, looking at the leaflet.

  “Because they’re going to execute someone and tell the world it’s me.” With that in mind, Parker had explained his theory on Sara, and how easily they’d convinced him that she was dead.

  “Sheeit, man. And I thought I was a bad dude. I ain’t got nuthin’ on these muhfuckas. What’s our plan?”

  Two days later, they were on top of the burnt-out State Offices block, looking down on the State House. Apart from the activity on the roof, and a few FEMA Jeeps parked outside on the concourse next to the statue of the Civil War governor, Oliver Morton, there wasn’t much activity on the ground.

  Downtown Indianapolis wasn’t the hive of life and activity it had been before the EMP Event. The offices were empty, the streets deserted. Most people had deserted the residential blocks, moving beyond the suburbs to try to rebuild their lives, grow some food, and create communities around agricultural and fresh water resources. That meant Parker’s group’s progress into the city on foot hadn’t been impeded. They’d come in at night, and then realized, once they’d circumvented a couple of FEMA patrols, that they probably could have come in during daylight hours anyway—such was the scarcity of troops in the city.

  The week of continuing storms had aided their ability to stay off the Council’s radar, too—the filthy weather meant that, if anything, FEMA troops hadn’t been keen on making extra patrols, or even on being particularly observant when they did attempt to find Parker and the others.

  Gace swept the State House with binoculars again while Parker assessed the defenses. The main wooden doors at the top of the steps had been reinforced with concrete blocks to stop anyone from ramming them with a vehicle. The blocks would also provide cover for the defenders. Their covert reconnaissance on all other sides of the Indiana limestone-constructed building, with its coppered roofs and dome, had shown similar augmentations on all sides. If Parker and the Mandingos were going to gain entry to the building, they were going to have to do it the hard way.

  Exposed and on foot.

  It was a beautiful building, Parker thought, exactly the kind of place he would have taken Sara to visit as a child. It reeked of history and confidence. And now the Council would destroy that legacy as surely as they were destroying the United States. The idea of building a place of public and political execution on the roof of a building that had represented the freedoms and morality of a nation tore a hole in Parker’s heart.

  Gace nudged him.

  He’d directed the binoculars to southeast of the State House, and high in the sky. Through the dark cloud and lashing rain, Parker caught the belly light of an aircraft before he heard it. As the speck grew, he realized it was a helicopter; closer, he could hear the gruff, blattering grunts of its engine. It wasn’t a black Huey, of the kind that had been distributing leaflets trumpeting this farrago of injustice.

  Parker registered the shape and color immediately upon seeing it.

  The green body and white-top paint job told him immediately that this Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King would have a designated call sign known across the land and the wider world.

  Marine One.

  The helo dropped and headed in, nose down, toward the State House, and a convoy of ten 5-ton FEMA trucks, followed by a line of F-350s and a gaggle of well-manned Jeeps, turned onto the concourse.

  Parker knew it was all for show, staged for the camera. That was the whole point. The show. Not the truth.

  “Shit,” Parker swore as the troops began to disembark from their transports. All were in full ACU, ACH, and body armor, and carrying a full complement of weaponry. Specifically, M16s and side arms. The F-350s, with their mounted M240s, positioned themselves at the four corners of the building as Marine One touched down in the parking lot.

  With its rotors still spinning, the passengers began to disembark and head toward the State House. First came the fake president, saluting the FEMA captain who rushed to meet Marine One, standing to attention as the door opened. Once they were clear of the still rotating blades, a yes-man with the president raised an umbrella and held it above him. Next, Grayland, followed by Warden Spencer, stepped onto the tarmac. Grayland walked stiffly with his walking stick, pulling his camel-hair coat around him against the elements. Behind him, escorted by two uniformed marshals, was Rayleigh. His hands were handcuffed behind him and his nose was bloody. Then, finally, behind Rayleigh, another prisoner emerged, propped up by marshals and wearing an orange jumpsuit. He was draped in chains. A grubby white eyepatch hung over his left eye.

  Parker snatched the binoculars from Gace and zeroed in on the Sea King.

  The prisoner who looked like Parker, who was meant as his stand-in, stumbled as if in great pain, or as if he’d been drugged. His face was swollen with so many bruises it looked like he’d been worked over with tire irons. His identifying features had been comprehensively wrecked, but he was standing.

  And that’s when it hit Park
er.

  His beard had been shaved off, his tattoos covered with the jumpsuit’s long sleeves and high neck, and there was a short afro wig pulled tight over his head.

  But Parker still recognized the man who was to be executed in his place.

  Kleet.

  Sara, Sammi, and ten Networkers from the surrounding area took the forest house before dawn on Saturday morning. It was the house Ava had seen the FEMA troops resting in, just before she’d witnessed the first leaflet drop. She’d located it on the map, and Sara had been adamant about leading the raid.

  There’d been only five FEMA troops at the house. Three bunked inside and two on guard. They’d all been dispatched with suppressed SIG Sauer P226s without a shot being returned. The bodies were piled in a back room of the property, and Sara had taken charge of making an inventory of what they’d liberated.

  The Networkers were a motley bunch of preppers who were well armed and well drilled. They’d answered Mace’s call on the microwave relays and arrived at the shelter in Seelyville within seven hours. More messages would amass a larger force, but David had felt a stealth attack on the execution site in Indianapolis was more likely to succeed than an all-out assault made without any adequate command and control apparatus.

  The forest house base was everything Sara had expected it to be—and more. It had rooms full of weapons and FEMA issue ACU, ACH and IOTVs, as well as ammunition. Not to mention three reserve F-350s with mounted M240s, food stocks, fuel, and all manner of survival equipment. It was a treasure trove of what they needed, but it was only when Sara found the oilskin-covered pouch of papers and laminates in a dead captain’s pack that she felt excitement return to her bones.

  They had everything they needed now.

  Sara would never forget what had happened at the prison in Terre Haute, but perhaps saving her dad, and striking a savage blow against the Council, would begin to take the edge off of the memory—at least for a while.

  Dawn came with more rain, lightning, and thunder as the storms that had ravaged the sky for the last few days rolled on, but Sara knew that weather was not going stop her getting to Indianapolis.

  Within the hour, the F-350s were ready, fully fueled, loaded, and ready to roll.

  “Sara,” Sammi said as she pulled her aside, her tone serious. She paused after getting her attention, looking so unlike the 50-something nurse Sara had known, now that she was locked into her FEMA uniform. “Ever since you broke into our house and brought the storm with you, I knew that one day another storm would come. Don’t ask me how I knew, but I did. I want you to know I had two choices when Ralph had the magnum on you; I didn’t have to shoot him. I had half a mind to shoot you myself. Because I knew it meant things were changing.”

  Sara felt her eyes widening, but Sammi held up her hand and put a finger on Sara’s lips to shush her. “Wait. The choice was to avert the storm or accept it. I accepted the storm, Sara. You are the storm. You’re full of thunder and lightning. Whatever happens today, I want you to know that I made the right choice. David feels the same. He’s just too caught up in his plans for the New Civil War to take the time to tell you. He would have waited years for the right moment for the Network to act. He knew he had to wait for the right person to lead, though. You’re that person. He’s sure of it, and I’m sure of it, too. You will prevail.”

  Sara gulped down the emotion that had risen in her chest, shocked silent.

  She remembered Margret’s talk before the assault on the facility that had ended in complete failure. Margret had been wrong to depend on her to succeed with the leadership of the Billtown ARM: After the raid, she’d run away, deserted them. And they’d scattered on the wind. Regardless of any letter Margret might have believed in, or any plan, Sara hadn’t been ready, and she’d come to grips with that in the weeks since. She’d accepted that whatever Margret had thought she’d seen, it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in her. And yet, here was a woman she trusted like family telling her the same thing all over again.

  Sara didn’t know what exactly it was that they were all seeing that she couldn’t. And yet, with Sammi’s eyes on her, she had to admit she felt a resurgence in confidence. If these people believed in her, that had to mean something.

  The women embraced as the Networkers climbed into the F-350s, and when they parted it was no longer as nurse and assistant, but as leader and soldier.

  “Okay!” Sara shouted to the others, leaping into the back of the lead F-350. “Move out!”

  Ava sprinted across the apron, Mace behind her with seven Networkers in formation. Dawn was still an hour away. They’d parked the Blazer one mile from the small Clay County Airstrip that served the area east of Brazil. There were three or four low one-story buildings used as aircraft shops for aviation companies, all in a row of small hangars for local businesses and private citizens to use for storing their light aircraft—Piper Cherokees and Cessna 172s, in the main. An office, café, reception area, and ticketing lobby ran the length of the short tarmac road leading into the airport. From the treeline, it looked sleepy and quiet, but even from the trees Ava could see exactly why Mace had suggested they use this airstrip to launch their phase of the assault on Indianapolis.

  Ava’s Beretta was drawn. With her left arm still in a sling and strapped to her body, she’d become accustomed to making do with one arm. Her shoulder was throbbing, and occasionally through the painkillers’ numbing effects she felt edges of bones crunching against other bones. But while ever she could move and shoot, she wasn’t going to be left out of this mission.

  Mace, like the other Networkers, was wearing body armor and an ACH. They were armed with M500 pump-action shotguns, MP5s, and M16s. He knelt beneath the café window, and lifted his head and looked in. He came away and reported to Ava.

  “One civilian, three FEMA, and three pilots, judging by their uniforms. Two asleep in chairs, one lying on a sleeping bag on the floor, four playing cards.”

  Ava nodded. She left four Networkers to set frame charges around the café window, and then went with Mace and the other three Networkers to the front of the building.

  They waited on either side of the door while Ava counted down the seconds on her watch.

  The thud of the frame charges blowing out the window and the flash-banging of three M84 stun grenades filled the air with the sharp stink of ignited ammonium nitrate and magnesium.

  Mace kicked the door in and Ava followed him inside. Inside, the FEMA soldiers who’d been playing cards with one of the pilots were variously stumbling about or waiting for the five seconds of retina burn to dissipate. Ava dropped one and Mace another as the other men among them stumbled and surrendered in turn. The civilian in the sleeping bag had had his eyes closed because he was asleep, and he sat up, instinctively covering his assailed ears with his hands. The pilots who’d been asleep in the chairs were already being covered by two Networkers who Ava had been introduced to as Bobby and Carol.

  “Gentlemen,” Ava spoke, her authority coming through as the smoke dissipated and the pilots’ streaming vision began to clear, “perhaps you’d like to take us to your aircrafts.”

  28

  Physically, Parker was in no position to stop Gace.

  The giant Mandingo could have picked him up with one hand and thrown him off the roof of the building without a second thought.

  When Gace had confirmed that Kleet was alive, and that he was being taken into the State House, he’d had to bite his knuckles to counter his rage. Minutes later, when marshals pushed Kleet out onto the roof—followed by Grayland, Spencer, and, finally, President Lassiter—and dragged Kleet to the cage, their group now complete, Gace had all but leapt from the building to tackle them himself.

  “They’re gonna fucking burn him, man!” he shouted, pointing to the pile of fuel cans beside the cage. “They’re gonna fucking set him on fire. Alive!”

  It had taken all of Parker’s considerable de-escalation skills to get Gace off the roof and back to the other Mandingos who’d been
waiting on the service floor below.

  Kleet’s gang was intent on following Gace in a blind all-out attack on the State House, but Parker had somehow managed to hold them back, though he wasn’t sure how. At least, he’d held them back so far.

  “Have you ever seen anyone minced by an M240?” Parker asked, speaking low and calming the tension as best he could, though his heart was hammering in time to the copter blades he could hear in the distance. “Minced is a good way of describing exactly what will happen to you. Once the guns on those F-350s are finished with you, there won’t be enough left to fill a hamburger, let alone a coffin!”

  Silverdollar faced up to Parker, his breath fouled by his bad teeth and hot temper. “Fuck you, cop! Fuck you!”

  “Fine!” Parker faced Silverdollar straight back. “Go out there and die, then! Kleet will burn anyway!”

  The Mandingos seethed around Parker like a crater of boiling lava, and he tried to think what to do. They had weapons, sure, and the element of surprise, but getting past the troops ranged against them sure felt like a suicide mission.

  The intensity of the wind was increasing, though, if he could only figure out how to use that to give them some advantage; he could feel it lashing the rain against the roof above them, vibrating the metal structures and thrumming against the walls.

  Parker’s original plan had been that the Mandingos would attack the State House, prioritizing getting inside and eliminating as many of the Council forces as they could before they were stopped—as he knew they would be. The scaffold on the roof, the extra reinforcements, and the weather were all new complications that made any frontal assault certifiably insane, however. The pressing fact that the Mandingos wanted their leader back, and weren’t thinking clearly enough for Parker to rely on them as an effective fighting force, gave Parker only one choice.

  So, he resigned to give himself up to the Council.