The Tsunami

by Marshall Miller

  Malcolm sighed. “So, what is the good news?”

  “Red is waiting in the next room with someone who may be able to help us. I’ll let him explain.”

  “Alright, Joe. Send them in.”

  A couple of minutes later Red, his East Indian assistant, came in with a slight, very dark East Indian man. He moved with an air of confidence, acting as if he were about to teach a college class instead of meeting a resistance leader in the midst of a war.

  Red introduced him. “Mayor, this is Professor Bashir Gupta. As well as being a general engineer, he has an expertise in all things involving ancient warfare.”

  Professor Gupta stepped forward and offered his hand. “Mayor.”

  Malcolm shook his hand, noticing there was quite a bit of strength in his grip for being such a small-looking individual. “Well, Professor, I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but right now I do not see much pleasure around here.”

  Gupta gave a slight smile. “I believe that is a grand understatement, Mayor. To cut to the chase, I have some Polaroid pictures from a still working camera I found amongst my things. It will give you an idea of what my friend Reginald Adams has been working on.”

  “Reggie Adams?”

  “Yes, Mayor, an African-American like yourself. I believe the American term is that he is a ‘backyard mechanic’. I would say he is a genius in making something out of close to nothing. I supply the designs, he makes them work with what we can salvage.”

  “So, show me what you have.”

  From out of a small folder, Professor Gupta pulled several photographs. “Here, Mayor, take a look at the first one. This is a multiple projectile version of a Roman ballista. As you can see, it fires five bolts at a time, with automobile leaf springs and cables used instead of wood forearms and catgut bow strings. You have to crank it to load it, but those five bolts can penetrate a battlerob at one hundred meters. We have made two of these weapons, and of course it does not require gunpowder to work.” The Professor then pulled out the next photograph.

  “This is a large, six-barrel homemade, hand-cranked gatling gun. The rounds are based on a .25 mm chain gun cannon round, but are loaded with black powder as it is easier to produce. Generally it will take two hands to crank it, so it is a two crewman weapon unless you have a very powerful individual. Your friend Joe here may be able to crank it one-handed.”

  Joe gave a slight grin at the mention of his name.

  “You could motorize it, but the strain of too rapid a rate of fire would most likely cause the barrels to shatter, as they are reinforced piping. However, the size of the projectile and its mass, enables it to penetrate with a flat-on strike a battlerob at about a hundred meters. It would still be fatal to unprotected humans at a much further distance. We have one of these produced already, with another one in the works. We are trying to produce rounds for them, but have been slowed by the dearth of powder.”

  The scientist then produced the final photo. “This large, round device with the four protruding projectiles is a pneumatic weapon that uses extreme air pressure to launch the long spigot projectiles. The warheads on the tips are black powder, with a small partially filled canister of gasoline behind it, the fumes of which are very explosive. The long container behind this warhead can be filled with a flammable liquid, gas, or toxin— whatever you choose. But the more weight, the shorter the range. At a single degree of inclination with just the small basic warhead, they can reach almost two hundred meters.”

  Malcolm studied the photos. “Where have you been?”

  “Well, hiding, of course.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Good answer. Coordinate with Joe here. Get us what you have, let me know what you need for more weapons.”

  “I also have some binary explosive warheads available, Mayor. As well as nitroglycerin. Get me some more chemicals, chemistry sets, I can make a substantial amounts of nitro and other explosives. I have a secondary degree in Chemistry.”

  Joe broke in. “We found a chemistry classroom at a junior college that hasn’t been picked over. We should be able to find you some basic chemicals.”

  “Good. Make it happen, Joe.”

  Malcolm took the doctor’s hand in his own. “Welcome to the Alamo, Professor. Joe there with his big knife must be in the role of Jim Bowie. I guess that makes me Davy Crockett.”

  The Professor smiled. “I know about the Alamo. But I plan to survive.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Who says we can’t rewrite history? Now, gentlemen, let’s get moving. Time to screw up the Squid’s plans.”

  As Malcolm was finishing up his meeting with the Professor, Ray Sparks, Lieutenant to John Talbot in the Krakens biker gang, was organizing his fifty Church of Kraken force. He wanted them to enter downtown Atlanta from the west on what was left of one of the main thoroughfares. Sparks had gotten them this far aboard five pickup trucks and a Humvee with a Fifty Caliber on top. He looked at the horizon and saw the sun was steadily moving toward sunset. He fidgeted a bit. He wanted to start entering the city while there was still sunlight, its duration shortened by the autumn season. But trying to get fifty semi-trained personnel in an organized formation was like herding cats.

  His second in command, a short, stocky man, a southerner originally from Georgia, walked up to him.

  “Well, Boss, they have all their equipment, finally. But most seem to have forgotten the formations they were taught the last three weeks. The one good thing is they all remembered the weapons safety and handling the trainers beat into them, so no one has shot anybody…yet.”

  Sparks snorted. “Well, Jim, let’s just get them on the road.”

  He pointed to the two Soldier Class beings standing in front of the transport vehicles. “As soon as they move, along with that battlerob, we are supposed to fall in behind. The theory is that they will draw the fire first, then we locate the meat shooting and maneuver around and dig them out. That is, if I can get these Churchers to maneuver.”

  All the Church of Kraken personnel had been issued an assault rifle gleaned from the millions seized worldwide during harvesting. They were given three thirty round magazines of ammunition, nothing else. A few had brought their own sidearms, showing that some had previous weapon handling experience. But, the fanaticism that made them want to fight against anyone resisting their Tschaaa Lords also led them to want to make suicidal banzai charges straight on. Sparks shook his head at the thought. ust wait after a line of them were shot down. Then let’s see how suicidal the rest were.

  James Kray, the head of the church, also called a Lord and Most Reverend of the Church, had made good on his promise. He provided the Squids with ten thousand volunteers for training the first month, with double that number being rounded up as this operation was beginning. Sparks had been told that there were two million official members, with an equal number hanging around the edges. Since you would be lucky to find a thousand flying squad members, the original Fifth Columnists of the Invasion, the Church of Kraken was the only viable source of humanity that could be used to invade Cattle Country, then strike back at the Unoccupied States.

  The force of some ten thousand guards that helped keep the dark meat in Cattle Country were just that—guards. None of them would volunteer to go in after the revolting people of color. Keep them in, shoot them, maybe even chase a few down once in a while after they got past the fence, that the guards would do. Try to force them to do more and they would begin to desert.

  Guarding the livestock was a job, not a career. The humans that did it, with some support from the robocops, came to the jobs as they were almost the only organized employment after the first year, and during the Long Winter, that provided room and board for the guards and their families. The food, shelter and trade goods the jobs provided meant that the people involved would not starve or die of exposure. The offspring of these people were some of the healthier humans that came out of the first five years, and were being groomed for further employment by the Tschaaa. But there were not enough of t
hem to create an army.

  The Krakens would be the human army to support Tschaaa warriors, which were a force along the shores of bodies of water but not efficient past a mile or two into the interior areas, away from water. And there not enough robocops or Lizards to create sufficient forces to attack and root out the Rebels. Greys were more support personnel, mechanics.

  Now the Squids were faced with the fact that perhaps they should have destroyed all attempts to organize outside the Occupied Zones, rather than just ignoring them. But then again, the Tschaaa had never really fought a long term war. The few aliens who had resisted them in their first expansion into space were quickly overwhelmed, then were accepted into the Tschaaa sphere of influence. The Lizards were a full-fledged client species. No one had ever revolted and attacked the Tschaaa once defeated. Until now. Of course, none of the other alien species were seen as food either.

  “Not as goddamned smart as you thought you are, you effing Squids, are you?” Sparks mumbled to himself. He may dislike minorities and dark-skinned people, but he had no desire to play footsies with the Squids beyond what he was doing now. If he could find a small community in some place he could hole up, he just might do that, especially if the perks he got—sex, drugs, and rock and roll—from the Tschaaa suddenly began to dry up.

  “Boss, looks like the battlerob and company are getting ready to move.” This comment from Jim interrupted his reverie about all things Squid. Sparks took a few strides toward the Church of Kraken fighters.

  “Listen up!” Sparks bellowed. Although he had a slender, gangly frame, his voice was large and bold. “Get formed up, ready to march out! Remember the formations you learned. Do not bunch up. We will follow the battlerob out, until enemy contact is made. Grab your shit and get in place.”

  Sparks had a M-16 with a 40 mike-mike grenade launcher attached, the only one in the unit. Jim had a scoped sniper rifle, and a brace of Glock pistols across his chest. Sparks had a holstered six shot revolver. The purpose of the handguns, unbeknownst to the other Krakens, was to shoot deserters. James Kray had said there would be “no deserters”. He did not intend to be made a liar.

  Just as they were about to move out, following the Soldiers and battlerob, Sparks heard a smooth, rumbling roar suddenly come from the distance. He thought it sounded like an engine, but not one he with which was familiar. It seemed to be getting closer very quickly. Sparks looked up as he realized it was from an aircraft.

  Sparks had made models of a F-51 Mustang in his youth, but had never seen one in flight. His mouth dropped open at the sight of the sleek looking propeller aircraft, marveling at the throaty power of the rebuilt Rolls Royce-Packard engine. Every being stood transfixed for a few moments.

  Until the six 50 Calibers opened up.

  Pappy Gunn, scrounger and armorer extraordinaire, had performed another miracle. An eighty plus year old fighter aircraft was back doing what it did best—taking the fight to the enemy where it was least expected.

  In what was going to be repeated in another four locations around the outskirts of Atlanta, 50 Caliber rounds tore into the Soldier Class beings, the battlerob, and the transport vehicles. Nothing had been armored to withstand the pounding from the six 50s, not even the Soldiers. Especially not the Krakens.

  The two Soldiers were down for the count, chests penetrated and bodies shattered. The battlerob’s eye-shaped turret was sieved. Two of the pickup trucks burst into flame, gas tanks holed. Then the humans were chopped up.

  Sparks and Jim managed to hit the dirt, rounds like huge angry bees whizzing by overhead. Many of the people from Church of Kraken were neither so quick nor so lucky. A 50 Caliber round tends to dismember the human body from pure kinetic energy, limbs and torso separated. One round can penetrate several bodies, each a fatality. The Krakens did not even have time to scream. Then the F-51 zoomed past. It was gone in seconds. A few moments later, the tableau was repeated on the next assault group, with similar results. The roar of Fifties could still be heard in the distance.

  Sparks, his training and experience taking over, was up on his feet, weapon raised for the next threat. None appeared. He then began to check on the damage to people and machines. A quick inspection revealed a dozen dead, two dozen wounded. Some of the wounded would die in the next thirty minutes. A couple of Krakens began running in circles screaming, until shot dead by Jim. That helped to restore order.

  “All right. See to the wounded. Get the good trucks moved so they don’t catch fire too. You and you. Head up about a hundred yards, make sure no one is about to attack from the city. Move, goddamnit! You wanted to be in a war, now you’ve got it.”

  The other four units about to enter Atlanta suffered similarly, although the last one was relatively lightly hit as the Mustang ran out of rounds soon after it opened up, and they had some warning. One Soldier was knocked out, the battlerob damaged, and six Krakens killed, another six wounded. Only one pickup was hit. The Mustang took some bullet holes, but its tough design kept it in good stead.

  When Malcolm got word of what happening, he had burst into gales of laughter. Red believed her Boss was now unhinged. Finally, Malcolm stopped, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Those crazy mofos. One week I’m getting fucked by them. The next, they’re suddenly trying to save my black ass. I just wish they would let me in on the plan.”

  As sunset was on its last legs, the F-51—“My Ole Lady”—came in on final approach across the Georgia border, to a small hidden airfield south of Nashville, Tennessee. Because of its lower speed, and the Tschaaa’s limited understanding of air defense, the eye in the sky ignored it. The F-51 made a clean escape. Ten minutes later, a Falcon began to orbit the greater Atlanta area.

  Colonel “Flash” Gordon, USAF (Ret), greased the fighter down on the former stretch of highway on the first try. Quickly going into taxi mode, he made a beeline to a single plane hangar that was well camouflaged among a few trees and bushes alongside the road. Colonel Gordon braked, stopping the aircraft just short of the hangars rear wall. He went through shut down procedures, and cut the engine. A few more turns of the prop, and all was quiet.

  The aircraft Crew Chief, Alfred Fritz, clambered up on the port wing and helped the seventy-something year old pilot unstrap and climb out of the cockpit. Soon they were both standing by the aircraft, looking for damage.

  “I see a few holes, Colonel. I thought you said you would get my plane back in one piece.” Every Maintenance Crew Chief referred to the aircraft they worked on as theirs. And they were always pissed when the pilot who “borrowed” it pranged it.

  “Hell, Chief. I said I would get it back in one piece, not pristine. They were shooting real bullets. The last time I had that happen was flying SPADS in Vietnam.” Gordon had flown Skyraiders, called SPADS after the biplane of World War I because both seemed out of date compared to all the fancy jets. Colonel Gordon would not admit to his real age, but everyone knew he was probably at least at the upper end of his seventies. Only through special dispensation from Madam President—in other words, he called in some markers—was he able to fly this mission. He had to agree to this being his one and only combat mission, and that he would train other pilots in the use of this aircraft.

  Chief Fritz grunted. “Well, I count a dozen bullet holes, so I guess you didn’t do too bad. How’d she fly?”

  Gordon broke into a broad grin. “Like a dream, just like her namesake.” My Ole Lady was a joking nickname he used for his love of his life, his wife Marie. She had not survived the first year after the rocks hit.

  “Now, you get to hide it with the security team, until I can get someone else to get it out of here. If you sit quiet for a few days, it should be able to be moved elsewhere. You will probably have more problems with feral humans than the Squids. The Tschaaa really do not like to leave the coastal areas.”

  “Well, Colonel, a Cessna is in route to pick you up. So relax, and I’ll start patching her up for the next pilot.” Fritz turned and walked away. Gordon walked up and c
aressed the fuselage.

  “You did well, Lady, like the fighter you always were. Marie, I know your spirit is here somewhere. You helped me do good like you always did.” He blinked back tears. He caressed the plane again, feeling as if he was with his wife one more time.

  “Thanks Babe. I’ll make sure they treat you right.” He knew Marie was watching from somewhere, would always watch over him until he went to join her. And now, he had helped put paid on the debt the Squids owed him.

  He walked away, on the lookout for a cold drink.

  CHAPTER 8

  MALMSTROM, MONTANA

  The morning after the F-51 strike, Abigail awoke to doggie kisses from Fuzz. It was an hour later than her normal wake-up time on a work day, which meant she actually had more sleep than usual as well. She appreciated the extra rest, and believed Fuzz had purposefully given her extra sleep time until he had to relieve himself. She scratched his muzzle, then moved to his chest.

  “Good morning, big fella. I take it you slept well in your new home. Let me get up and I’ll let you out.” Fuzz backed away, and Abigail easily slid out of bed. She thought again how blessed she was to have come here. “Thanks, Lord,” she said out loud. Then she moved to the kitchen.

  She let Fuzz out into the crisp, clear air. Winter weather already approached in Montana; there had been snow flurries since the approach of the first day of fall. Fuzz seemed to take no heed. He went out and took care of his business, walking around marking the fence line to let everyone in the neighborhood know whose yard this was.

  Abigail smiled as Fuzz used his rear legs to kick up some grass and spread his scent around. Then he pranced over to her with a “Well, where’s breakfast?” look. She scratched his ears.