by Bobby Akart
“Madam President, the system can and will defend the homeland if attacked. However, only you can order a retaliatory strike, in my opinion. Let me say this, a retaliatory strike in response to incoming missiles is about more than vengeance and punishment. The launch of our ICBMs will act to destroy both the offensive and defensive capabilities of the DPRK. For that reason, Madam President, and I say this out of complete honor and respect for the challenges you face, but the axiom he who hesitates is lost applies in this instance. If we delay our nuclear response, their second wave of missiles could take out our silos. As I said previously, this is a game of seconds.”
“Understood,” said the president. “I assure you, I will not hesitate to give the order. Major Patterson, who is carrying the nuclear football, is in the room with me now, and I’m sure he’s tired of sleeping on the couch outside my quarters at Raven Rock. When the time comes, I’ll be ready.”
Chapter 62
December 1
United States Forces Korea
Yongsan Garrison, Seoul, South Korea
The United States Forces Korea was the primary command under the umbrella of the U.S. Pacific Command. USFK, as it was known, was headquartered at Yongsan Garrison, a suburban area of Seoul. Over forty thousand American soldiers were present in South Korea as part of their mission to keep the region stable and to protect the South from attack. USFK coordinated this military presence, but also performed an important intelligence function. As a result, as Duncan liked to say, the place was crawling with spooks.
It was dawn when Duncan and Sook were escorted into separate interrogation rooms at Yongsan Garrison. After being given a black coffee, a bottled water, and a cellophane-wrapped cheese Danish, he was visited by the man who had masqueraded as a South Korean soldier, together with a woman wearing a gray suit.
“Armstrong, we’ve reviewed your file. Decorated combat vet. Recruited by the agency. Performed admirably on assignments. Then poof, you disappeared. Yet here you sit with a tall tale of having visited the Hermit Kingdom, got married to a local, scooted off on a fishing honeymoon, and to top it off, single-handedly took out a North Korean patrol boat.”
Gray-suit lady chuckled at her counterpart’s sarcasm.
Duncan smiled. “Wow, sounds like a good book, doesn’t it?”
The agency interrogator sat back in his chair and clasped his fingers across his stomach. “Why don’t you fill in the gaps, Mr. Armstrong?”
Duncan studied his interrogators. Either they knew who he was and what his real mission entailed in North Korea, or they didn’t and they were just fishing.
He smiled and replied, “I think you have all you need to know, wouldn’t you agree?”
The interrogator slammed his fist on the table. “Armstrong, you better start talking real quick like or this is not going to go well for you. What were you doing in North Korea?”
“I met a nice girl, got married, and hope to live happily ever after,” Duncan replied without breaking eye contact.
“Last chance, pal! Tell us what you know, or I will send your gal pal back through the DMZ.”
Duncan clenched his lips together and curled them in slightly. He shook his head from side to side. “Sorry, that’s all you’re gonna get. Now, may I have my one phone call? Are there any American lawyers around here or—”
“Armstrong!” his interrogator shouted as he gripped the arms of his chair and began to stand.
Then the woman in the gray suit touched the interrogator’s arm and softly spoke for the first time. “Would you excuse us, please?”
Smoke was still coming out of the man’s ears when he spun and left the room. With his eyes, Duncan followed him out of the room and then slowly turned his attention to the woman. He wasn’t going to fall for the good cop, bad cop routine.
“Mr. Armstrong, I am Lynn Sweeney, assistant chargé d’affaires for the U.S. Embassy and Consulate. Like my associate, I work for the Central Intelligence Agency; however, I report directly to Billy Yancey, head of the Political Action Group within the National Clandestine Service. I will state that I am unaware of the details and purpose of your mission in North Korea. Very few people are. The questioning by my associate was intended to determine if you are capable of keeping your mission’s details secret. In my opinion, you’ve passed the test.”
“Thank you,” said Duncan, who still vowed to keep his mission, and its results, to himself.
“I am sure you’re still hesitant to speak with me, so your handlers have provided me this code—08282018DRA.”
Duncan raised his eyebrows in surprise. The alphanumeric code, meaningless to most people, was one that had been established by Duncan before he left Langley for the Middle East months ago. It was a combination of the date Dallas had been killed in action and his brother’s initials.
“Okay,” said Duncan hesitantly.
“Armstrong, what happened to Park?”
“He was killed, shot in the back by DPRK soldiers,” said Duncan somewhat defiantly. He still was angry that he and Park had been abandoned on Sinmi-do by this person, or Billy Yancey, or someone higher up.
“Who is the girl?”
“A villager with basic medical training. She and her family found me and kept me alive. I promised to bring her to safety in return.”
“Are you aware that Kim Jong-un is alive?”
Duncan grimaced. “I gathered that. Has it been confirmed without a doubt?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. The agency representative sat up in her chair. “Did you attempt to fulfill your mission?”
“We did fulfill it,” Duncan shot back. “Let’s just say we obviously received some bad intel at Langley or we were set up. Park and I did our job, and he died for his country.”
“Armstrong, the logistics of your mission may be over, but the secrecy never is. Do you understand that?”
“I do.”
The woman reached into her pocket and retrieved a cell phone. She began typing what appeared to be a text message and sat silently while she awaited a response. After several minutes, her phone notified her of a text message and she typed once again. This time, the response was almost immediate.
“Final question, then we need to have a discussion about your future,” she began. “What does the girl know about your mission? Is she a security threat?”
“She knows nothing, nor did she ask,” Duncan replied. “Washington needs to know there are more like her in North Korea. They want a better life. They have no use for their government or its military. We need to help them any way we can.”
“Armstrong, that may all be moot soon,” the woman began. “You need to listen and understand what I’m about to tell you. The world has changed drastically in the last seven days.”
Chapter 63
December 1
Kingsbury Colony, Montana
Morales’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. He was unable to hold the reins of his horse. Slumped over the horse’s neck, Morales was covered in extra blankets while his close friend Pacheco rode alongside, periodically preventing the injured rider from falling off. The bleeding from his bullet wound was under control, but he was suffering from chills and a high fever. Infection was raging inside his body, and he’d likely die if he didn’t get treatment soon.
The group’s progress had slowed considerably, and any thought of reaching Great Falls and medical treatment were cast aside. They were easily two or three days away at this pace.
Cooper debated his next decision with Riley and Palmer. Palmer suggest that she ride ahead in search of a ranch or any home where Morales could rest in warm, comfortable surroundings. Cooper absolutely refused to let her go on her own, insisting that she and Riley ride together. Even then, their inability to communicate concerned him. Because they’d stayed together for most of the ride, they hadn’t taken the time to recharge the Uniden radios from their get-home bags. It was a mistake they’d learned from. Either way, he didn’t like splitting the group up.
; In the end, it was Morales’s suffering from uncontrollable shivering that forced a decision. Palmer and Riley were sent south toward Great Falls. They’d take the risk and approach the first house they found, hoping to enlist the help of a Good Samaritan.
It had been two hours since they’d left, and Cooper was already fraught with concern. He chastised himself for choosing the health and safety of a relative stranger over his own family. Granted, Morales and Pacheco had been loyal to the three Armstrongs; however, in a survival situation, hard choices had to be made, and generally, family concerns trumped those of others.
Another half hour passed, and the sun was beginning to approach the tall peaks of the Rockies to their west. They’d been very fortunate to avoid any additional snowfall since the day after the grid collapsed. Now, clear, cold skies dominated their surroundings.
“Coop, I see a wagon coming our way,” said Pacheco. “Should we move off the road?”
“There’s no cover out here,” Cooper responded. He pulled his horse to a stop. “Whoa.”
He pulled his rifle and dismounted. Pacheco did the same and brought the three horses to a highway sign that read Kingsbury Colony, 6 Miles, where he tied them off.
“It is what it is,” mumbled Pacheco as he stood off to the side, forcing the approaching riders to choose a target.
“Hah!” could be heard from the driver of the two-horse wagon. Then a dog’s barking grew louder—a deep, baritone woof.
Cooper could see three people in the seat behind the horses. “It’s Riley and Palmer! Here comes the cavalry!”
He and Pacheco lowered their rifles and walked toward the wagon, waving their arms.
“Hey, Coop!” yelled Riley as he began to slow the wagon. “We’ve found our angel of mercy!”
The high-strung wagon horses rumbled to a stop just beyond the traffic sign, causing the three horses to spook slightly. Morales groaned and began to fall off his horse, but Pacheco scrambled to cradle the larger man in his arms. His knees began to buckle until he turned Morales to land on his feet. Cooper quickly jumped in to assist.
“Thank God, y’all. Morales is in real trouble.”
Palmer and Riley jumped out of the wagon and helped down a woman bundled up in a suede leather trench coat with a thick Sherpa collar. She wore a brown felt cowboy hat that revealed flowing red hair underneath.
Riley made the introductions. “Guys, this here is Fiorella Schlossmacher. She owns the ranch up a ways in Kingsbury Colony. She’s a retired nurse practitioner and has supplies to help Morales.”
“Wow, it’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” said Cooper as he removed his hat and shook her hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, young man,” she replied. Fiorella showed no outward concerns at being around a group of strangers on the road. As she spoke with the group, there was an inner peace about her that Cooper couldn’t quite put his finger on. In a way, he envied her casual, unexcited demeanor.
The dog began to bark again. “Oh yeah,” said Palmer. “That’s Winnie, Fiorella’s English bulldog. She came along for the ride.”
“Won’t she get cold out here?” asked Cooper.
“Oh, no,” replied Fiorella. “She has plenty of chub to keep her warm. Winnie is our baby. My husband and I adopted her as a rescue pup when we lived near Kansas City. Winnie is named after a French bulldog in a book series my husband really enjoyed from years ago. That dog was called Winnie the Frenchie. In a way, it was prophetic. Winnie the Frenchie endured a power outage caused by a cyber attack. Our Winnie has to live through a power outage too.”
The group continued to make small talk as they carefully got Morales settled in the back of the wagon. Soon he was bundled up, and the group traveled the six miles to the small ranch owned by the Schlossmachers.
Kingsbury Colony was a Hutterite community near the small northwestern Montana town of Valier. Like the Amish and Mennonites, Hutterites traced their roots back to the Reformation period throughout Europe in the sixteenth century. Almost extinct as a religious group, they had fled Europe and moved into the upper Great Plains of Montana and Western Canada, where they thrived. Hutterites focused on small local colonies of ranchers and farmers, focusing on self-sufficiency for everything from clothing to food to medical care.
The entourage arrived at the limestone and log home, which sat alone in the middle of a large snow-covered field. Smoke rose out of chimneys constructed on both ends of the residence, and the warm glow of candlelight could be seen through the windows.
“Here we go, buddy,” said Cooper as he and Pacheco hoisted up Morales and carried him through the front door.
“For now, place him on the settee in front of the fire,” instructed Fiorella. “Palmer and I will step into the kitchen while you change him into these long handles. My husband is larger than this young man, but at least his clothes are dry. Also, please put these warm socks on him.”
Fiorella, Palmer, and Winnie left the room while the guys stripped Morales of his wet clothes and dressed him. The warmth of the fire had a positive effect on their injured friend, as he tried to speak.
“Are we at the Motel 6?” he asked with a slight laugh before he coughed up bloody, mucus-filled fluids.
“Yeah, something like that,” said Pacheco. “Why don’t you leave the jokes to Riley and get some rest. We’ve got someone that can take care of you.”
Morales nodded his head and curled up on the small two-person sofa. A wool-knit blanket was tucked around him, and he was asleep within minutes.
Fiorella asked Palmer to assist her in examining Morales while he slept. Riley and Pacheco went outside to secure the horses in the barn. Their rides were treated to a warm spot to sleep, fresh hay and water, and a roof to avoid the cold.
Cooper sat by the fire as Fiorella examined Morales’s wound. She didn’t make any comments, only occasionally uttering a humpf or an oh. Palmer provided her the first aid supplies as requested and focused on the procedures Fiorella employed to bandage the gunshot wound. For Palmer, everything was a learning experience.
Finally, the examination was over. She placed a small pillow under Morales’s head and wrapped him in another blanket. She nodded her head toward the kitchen, indicating Palmer and Cooper to follow her.
“I wish I could give you some good news about your friend, but I can’t,” she started. “He has a very serious infection. I hated to wake him, albeit briefly, but I needed to give him the only antibiotics I have, Clavamox, which is left over from an infection Winnie had last summer. It is a form of amoxicillin that is identical to what humans take. Also, I have a few tramadol for the pain. English bulldogs are susceptible to hip dysplasia, and the tramadol provides her some relief.”
“Won’t the medication make him better?” asked Cooper.
“There must be bullet fragments inside his shoulder, which are causing the infection. Sometimes the medication works, but he may need to go for medical treatment.”
“In Great Falls?” asked Palmer.
“Unfortunately, that’s not a good idea,” replied Fiorella. “The worst of our society has reared its ugly head in Great Falls. Some members of the Colony went there in search of a family member who hadn’t returned. They came back with horrible reports of violence and looting. It’s the same all over the country.”
Cooper walked toward the living room and looked at Morales. With his back turned to the kitchen, he asked, “What do you suggest?”
“The best I can do is treat him with these antibiotics and change his bandages regularly. Only rest and the Good Lord will determine his fate after that.”
Cooper turned his back to the women and stared at Morales sleeping. “How long?”
“A week to ten days, to be sure. Infections fester even though the mind and body disagree. The trauma his body is suffering is not to be trifled with.”
Cooper took a deep breath. Each day that passed, society fell deeper into the abyss of collapse. They had been isolated from the carnage that even small c
ities like Great Falls was experiencing. A seven- to ten-day delay in returning to Texas could be the difference in their survival.
The front door opened, breaking Cooper out of his thoughts. Pacheco and Riley reported on the horses and a discovery in the barn.
“You’ll never believe the sweet ride we found in one of the horse stalls,” started Riley. “It’s incredible.”
Fiorella started to laugh. “You boys must’ve discovered my husband’s favorite toy—Red Rover.”
Chapter 64
December 1
Lubbock, Texas
“I’m not real thrilled with leaving the ranch right now, especially after what happened last night,” Lucy said as she glanced to the pickup truck bed where the two men were chained together and huddled behind the cab to stay warm. She’d refused to allow the dead girl to be buried on the ranch, so Preacher had found a large tarp and rolled her up in it. Her body was in the back with the two trespassers.
“Thank you for patching the whiner up,” said Major with a chuckle. “I knew I was too far away to kill him with the shotgun, but I did manage to tear up his arm pretty good.”
“The only reason I treated him was so he’d stop his squallin’. Even then, I can hear him behind us. It’s cold. They’re inhuman. Crybaby. Shut up already!”
Major laughed at his wife’s feistiness. If Miss Lucy had a vote, she and Preacher would’ve definitely been in the hang ’em from the tallest tree column.
“I agree, Lubbock is an hour from home, but the meat will be ready, and we can pick up another cooler full of dry ice. We can drop these two clowns off at the sheriff’s office on the way.”
Lucy looked around the town of two hundred and thirty and saw only three people standing on a street corner. Stores were closed, and the Exxon station’s pole sign read out of gas.
Major had filled up the truck with fuel from their farm diesel tanks at the ranch. He doubted any law enforcement officers would care that he was running red diesel in his truck rather than the street legal and heavily taxed green diesel.