Standing in the Storm (The Last Brigade Book 2)

by William Alan Webb

  Carlos refused to squirm. “It was done with great affection, General.”

  Angriff scowled and said nothing. Then, with a wink, he patted Carlos’ shoulder. “It’s a good nickname, Lieutenant. And to all of you, I want to formally convey the gratitude of the entire brigade for your heroic actions during the fighting. And by all of you, I mean Captain Randall and Lieutenant Carlos, and you, too, Sergeant Rossi. You and your entire crew.

  “The records show you turned Tank Girl around nearly twice as fast as any other crew, including the Apaches. Had you taken ten more minutes during that final turnaround, the enemy would have been scattered all over the desert before Captain Randall got there, and that would have been that. As it was, they were still bunched up when Captain Randall and Lieutenant Carlos arrived, and the damage they inflicted slowed down the enemy long enough for us to organize a defense further down the road. That’s damned fine teamwork.

  “I hereby award you, Sergeant Rossi, and your entire crew the Bronze Star for meritorious service during combat operations. You are each promoted one grade. As for you, Captain Randall and Lieutenant Carlos, you are both awarded the Silver Star for performance above and beyond the call of duty.”

  After shaking hands, Angriff motioned Randall aside. Out of earshot, Angriff put his mouth close to Randall’s ear. “I’m damned proud to have you as my son-in-law,” he said. “You obviously care about Morgan as much as I do, and that’s all I can ask. But if you ever again put me in the position you did by stopping that tank column, I may shoot you myself. Is that clear?”

  Randall just nodded, knowing it was not a bluff.

  “Good,” Angriff said. “Welcome to the family.”

  “Sergeant Arnold?”

  Sitting on a bench in the bay next to Tank Girl, Andy Arnold leaned forward and peered around. A skinny private stood in the doorway above that into the main base, holding a covered stainless steel bowl.

  “Down here,” Arnold said.

  The private saw him and eased down the stairs, carefully balancing the bowl.

  Alisa Plotz joined Arnold and spread her hands in a What gives? gesture. He shrugged.

  “With General Angriff’s compliments, Sergeant,” the private said.

  Arnold took the bowl and sniffed it. The metal was cold. Condensation ran down the sides. After uncovering it, he couldn’t believe what it held — a big mound of ambrosia, filled with apples and grapes the way his grandmother had made it, topped with orange slices, whipped cream, and shredded coconut.

  He had no idea where they had gotten the ingredients, nor did he care. He called the ground crew over, and without further ado, they ate the whole thing. Arnold saved the final pleasure of licking the bowl for himself.

  Chapter 49

  After a victory, sharpen your sword.

  Admiral Togo, after his victory at The Battle of Tsushima in 1905

  August 3

  Most of the brigade remained in the field, so Angriff scheduled award ceremonies during a general tour of the liberated areas. The last stop was with the tank battalion, which had pulled back into reserve at Prescott Valley city. While there, he awarded four Silver Stars, including one to his own daughter. The old hospital in Prescott had been in use even during the years of the Republic of Arizona. Although primitive, it was shelter, and the medical teams put it to good use. Morgan Randall was recovering there.

  By early afternoon, the three generals were back in the Crystal Closet, along with Colonel Walling and Lt. Colonel Kordibowski. Lunch was a soup made from dried navy beans found in Prescott, with reconstituted onions and tomatoes. Tasty as it was, Kordibowski’s preliminary intelligence summaries were the reason for their gathering.

  “Let us start with this Islamic entity. We now know it is officially called the Caliphate of the Seven Prayers of the New Prophet,” Kordibowski said.

  “Pretentious bastard, isn’t he?” Angriff said.

  Kordibowski smiled. “You don’t know the half of it. We have approximately five hundred fifty prisoners from what was their army. If it’s pretentiousness you want, try this: it’s called the Sword of the New Prophet.”

  “What?” Angriff said, sitting up. “Say that again, Rip.”

  Kordibowski glanced at Fleming. “Their army is called the Sword of the New Prophet.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Angriff said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I don’t remember fighting such an army in the old days,” Fleming said.

  “No, not that. It’s something else. Go on, Rip; I didn’t mean to hijack your briefing. It’ll come to me if I quit thinking about it.”

  “Ummm, yes. We have a lot of prisoners, most of whom were more than willing to talk. It’s an excellent sample size, so we can be pretty confident about our conclusions.”

  “So what’s the story with this new prophet nonsense?” Angriff said.

  “This is not traditional Islam. We thought they were Muslims, and in a sense they are, but honestly, gentlemen, I’m not exactly sure what this movement is. The Koran is venerated, but it’s treated something like how Christians treat the Old Testament. More important are the teachings of their leader, the Caliph, also known as the New Prophet. He lives somewhere in Texas and his brother runs the show in Tucson.”

  “I thought the Koran was supposed to be Allah’s final word on the subject,” Angriff said. “I don’t remember anything about another prophet.”

  “That’s true, although some scholars could argue that Jesus is coming back at the end of days and that he would, therefore, be the last prophet. But for the sake of our discussion, the answer is yes, Mohammad was the last prophet. We really don’t know much about the new teachings at all, except they are especially brutal. And we can assume they endorse Naskh, which others call abrogation. It would not surprise me if this new prophet was just another strongman using Islam as a front, framing orders as religious dogma.”

  “A con artist?”

  “Something like that, yes. As I said, these are not Muslims as we know them. As to their capabilities, they are well-armed and have some leftover National Guard assets.”

  “Minus three tanks,” Angriff said.

  Kordibowski allowed a moment for laughter. “The quantities of fuel needed for so many vehicles is high, so it may be surmised they have access to a steady source of gasoline and diesel. That makes sense when considering the Texas connection, if we also assume wells and refineries are still operational there. If this is true, and I would say that it almost has to be, then our enemies to the east and west have access to almost unlimited fuel supplies, while we do not. This puts us at a distinct disadvantage over a long period. Other than these factors, the chief threat from the Caliphate is the manpower pool available.”

  “Lots of mobile light infantry,” Angriff said.

  “Exactly. Their decision to move west was prompted by our initial engagement on Activation Day. When General Tompkins rescued those women, the Caliphate sent a force in pursuit that was much larger than necessary, the idea being to gain those men field experience. They never expected that force to be destroyed; it was outside the scope of their thinking that such power still existed. But as we feared, at least one of them survived to report being attacked from the air.

  “They knew the remnant of some American military force was in Prescott, and made the assumption it was this organization that attacked them. Such a challenge could not go unpunished. Thus they mobilized an army to take Prescott and wipe out this threat. Here’s the amazing part — the timing of their attack was completely coincidental.”

  “There are no coincidences,” Angriff said.

  Kordibowski shrugged. “However it happened, they had no idea the Seventh Cavalry existed. They had promised a lot of these men farms in Prescott Valley, and the slaves to work them.”

  “Slavery,” Angriff said. “The world worked for centuries eliminating it, and the minute the power went off, it came back like cancer.”

  When he said nothing more, Kordibows
ki continued. “We wiped out about a third of them, including hundreds of vehicles of all types. But the worst loss for them was the specialized trucks, the heavy ones they brought to get Prescott back up and running quickly. The good news for us is that some of them can be salvaged and others were abandoned undamaged. For example, we have a street roller in nearly pristine condition.

  “Moving on to Prescott itself, the situation there is stable and our intel is based on hundreds of interviews with a cross-section of the population. We are still compiling data, but it’s clear the Prescott community was well organized.

  “As you might expect, a disproportionate percentage of the food supply went to the ruling junta, for lack of a better word. Nevertheless, and to Hull’s credit, the people themselves were not starving. They grow quite a variety of crops and the ones who did the work were allowed to keep enough to survive. As long as they did what they were told, I should add.

  “The only potential danger now is the escape of Hull’s number two man, a Norbert Cranston, with between one hundred and three hundred followers. Their likely hiding spot is the Prescott National Forest, west of the city. We do not believe they got away with any heavy weapons, and unless they’ve got caches of food somewhere, he will have a hard time holding that group together. Nevertheless, it is a loose end.”

  “Norm, make sure the sentries are alert for food raids,” Angriff said. “Let’s put some round-the-clock patrols around some of the nearer farms, too. These guys can’t go guerilla for long.”

  “Our intel on the Chinese, unfortunately, isn’t nearly as complete. We only took five prisoners and one of those is seriously wounded. The other four either don’t know much or won’t talk. So here’s what we do know: we faced the Ninth Armored Division of the People’s Liberation Army, reinforced by elements of the One Thirty-Fourth Infantry Division, both of which are Class A units—”

  “Excuse me,” Tompkins said, “but is that like being first class?”

  The question took them all by surprise. It was the first time Tompkins had ever interrupted a speaker in a meeting.

  “It is, General. Class A units are full-time, intensely trained, and fully equipped with the most modern weapons.”

  “Thank you,” Tompkins said.

  “The Chinese had specialized sub-units attached. They brought more than two hundred tanks for the attack, so they were definitely planning to stay. They landed in California many years after the initial Collapse, when there was no functioning central authority or military to stop them. China itself later underwent massive upheavals of some kind, and so the expeditionary force wound up stranded in America when its lifeline dwindled. They control the Pacific Coast from Baja to about Monterrey, and inland to the mountains. Total strength is only a reinforced corps of four divisions, not enough to seize more territory and control it. Apparently there are a number of guerilla groups in that area.

  “The oil pumps and refineries they revived, which gives them unlimited fuel, too. What they do not have enough of is workers. For decades they have been trading fuel for people, but this time they made the decision to seize Prescott and expand their footprint into Arizona.”

  Angriff held up a hand, then paused before speaking, as if he did not believe what he’d heard. “Let me make sure I understand the big picture, Rip. On the very day that we decided to move in and liberate the hostages and the city, two completely different armies also chose that day to attack? Completely unknown to each other, and from two opposing directions? This was all just some huge coincidence?”

  “Let’s call it synchronicity, General. The Caliphate was set in motion by General Tompkins’ actions and ours. But the Chinese…” Rip’s voice trailed off.

  “Incredible. So if we’d waited one more day to attack, the Chinese would have overrun Prescott, and the Sevens then would have attacked the Chinese?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “The whole city would have gone up in flames and we would have walked right into that. My God, even if we’d won that fight, there would not have been anything, or anybody, left to save.”

  “I can’t argue with any of that, General,” Kordibowski said.

  “Truth is always stranger than fiction. Go ahead and finish, Rip. I promise not to interrupt again.”

  “The CO can interrupt whenever he wants, sir. The Chinese left fifty-seven AFVs on the field, along with ten self-propelled triple-As. I believe we can put some of those back in service. We also captured seventeen trucks of various types and twenty-three tanker trucks. Six of those are still filled with high-grade fuel. I believe this represents one-third of the total Chinese armor in North America, about a quarter of the tanker trucks, and ten percent of their other vehicles. We killed upwards of fourteen hundred enemy soldiers. Since the Chinese evacuated their wounded, we have no idea of those numbers.

  “But the most noticeable thing about the Chinese soldiers is their age. These are the original men who invaded California thirty-plus years ago. That puts them in their fifties, at least. There’s a second generation coming up, but the Chinese were forbidden to intermarry with the locals until recently.”

  “Any update on the prisoners we rescued?” Angriff said, ignoring his promise not to ask another question.

  “Beyond the numbers, General, no. We’ve been stretched pretty thin. I made the call to interrogate enemy prisoners first and debrief liberated IPs later. All I can tell you is they are from dozens of small but functioning towns and villages scattered all over the place.”

  “Anything else we should know?”

  “Lots and nothing, General.”

  “Good.” Angriff stood and stretched his aching lower back. “Gentlemen, I’m adjourning to the observation deck to have a smoke. You are more than welcome to join me, or not.”

  1537 hours

  Corporal Dupree couldn’t stop licking his teeth, a nervous habit his mother had tried, and failed, to break. Angriff stepped out of his office toward the ramp. Watching him, Dupree waited at Schiller’s desk. Angriff exchanged salutes but kept walking.

  Dupree called after him. “I did as you ordered, General,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t anger Angriff by speaking first. “I’ve allocated the mainframe and we’re scrubbing it of important data.”

  Angriff paused. His furrowed brow showed Dupree he had completely forgotten about it. A second later he snapped his fingers and grinned. “The trap for our hacker friends?”

  “They weren’t exactly hackers, General, but that’s close enough. The engineers are working on rerouting the tapline and selecting the data to upload, but it’s going to be a while. The mainframe won’t be ready for weeks, at least. We’re short-handed on techs. It could be months, but when it’s done, we’ll turn it back on and see what happens.”

  “Fine work, son. Come to me as soon as you know something.”

  Chapter 50

  They hauled him to the crossroads

  As day was at its close;

  They hung him to the gallows

  And left him for the crows.

  Robert E. Howard, “The Moor Ghost”

  1620 hours, August 3

  “Unlock this door!” Lester Hull yelled again. “I order you to let me out!”

  By then he was certain that, in some unknown way, an American military unit was still in existence. The uniforms, equipment, markings, insignia, even the slang, were all genuine U.S. Army. How that could be, he didn’t know, but the one thing he did know was that he outranked everybody he would meet. When that colonel had tried to question him, he’d played the rank card and said nothing. And that was exactly how he intended to act until he knew what was going on and how he could turn it to his advantage.

  Lester Hull wanted to pace the square room, but without a belt his pants fell down, so instead he sat on the hard bunk in the corner and screamed. They’d taken his shoelaces, too, and despite the heat outside there was a chill in his cell. They’d let him keep his uniform and insignia, but the outright contempt shown to him was
beyond imagining.

  They’d blindfolded him in Prescott before transporting him to wherever he was. By using his other senses, Hull had gotten a good idea that he was in the mountains to the north or northeast. He’d felt the sun on the back and left side of his neck, and based on the time of day, it had started out overhead and then moved west.

  Once he’d arrived, things had become more confusing. The echoes around him had indicated interior spaces, a large building, or maybe a tunnel of some sort, with lots of twists and turns. He could tell there was light everywhere, bright light, and it had to be artificial. Where did the energy necessary for so much lighting come from? What were the strange noises, the clangs and hums and other unidentified sounds?

  His room had also surprised him. He’d expected it to be dark, perhaps with restraints or torture devices. Instead, while it was small, perhaps ten feet by ten feet, the room was clean and well lit by some type of recessed lighting. It had a sturdy cot with clean sheets and a blanket, and a small table with two chairs in the center of the room. An actual steel toilet took up the far corner. The door was metal with a small window.

  Time was hard to measure. He thought three days had passed, but couldn’t be sure. The food was strange, with odd flavors and a stringy texture. The worst part was the boredom. About all he could do was sit and yell.

  The door opened and he figured it was another meal, which was good because he was hungry. The man who entered, however, did not carry a tray.

  He was large, about six feet or so, with wide shoulders and a deep chest, drooping jowls, and light grey hair cut short. His eyebrows were shaggy. His dominant feature were the bright blue eyes, which burned with internal fire Hull had never encountered before. Behind the stranger’s scowl was a tangible gravitas Hull felt immediately, like a physical force pushing into his cell. The man wore no insignia, had no signs of rank, yet Hull knew by instinct he was the man in charge.