Defiance: Judgment Day (The Defending Home Series Book 3)

by William H. Weber

  After the disheartening news he had received about the resistance in Encendido, Dale was disarmed and ushered into the mess hall where a grimacing Major Gruber sat eating a beef enchilada MRE. The commander glanced up at the approaching group, a forkful of mush perched before his open mouth, his eyes half-moons.

  He let the food fall onto the torn packaging with a wet plop. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  Dale stepped forward and introduced himself. There wasn’t a lot of time for pleasantries, so he got straight to the point, beginning with how Encendido had been invaded by the cartel and that the townspeople needed his help.

  Gruber wiped his hands on a napkin and stood. What the major lacked in height and width, he made up for with a deep voice which echoed throughout the dining area.

  “You’re not the first civilian to come begging for help,” he said, clearly not bothering to mince his words. “A month ago, I might have had the manpower to take care of your problem. But that was before most of my men decided to go AWOL.”

  Gruber did not need to explain why. The reasons were obvious. Oath or not, in times of crisis, protection of one’s family often took precedence.

  “I wish I could help you, I really do,” Gruber said, easing himself back into his seat.

  “Major, I’m afraid the situation’s not that simple,” Dale protested. “The cartel isn’t alone. They’re acting on behalf of a new ultra-nationalist Mexican president who’s out to reclaim large swaths of the American Southwest. It’s tantamount to a military invasion. I was warned you might need some convincing, but I didn’t think for a minute you would allow a foreign power to occupy American soil unopposed.”

  A red flush crept up Gruber’s neck. The major ran a tight ship. He wasn’t used to being questioned by anyone, let alone a civilian.

  With great visible effort, Gruber steadied his breathing and motioned toward the sad-looking enchilada slumped on the brown paper bag in front of him. “You ever tried one of these beef enchilada MREs, Dale?”

  Dale took a half step back, confused by the question.

  Gruber repeated it.

  “I haven’t,” Dale replied, still wondering where this was going.

  “It’s horrible, maybe the nastiest thing I’ve ever tasted. When we first arrived at Big Jim's Truck Stop, we had containers filled with a ton of different flavors. Chicken fajitas, chili mac, beef stew. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn with a hundred and fifty young men running around, many of the good ones were gobbled up pretty darn fast. Then more were stolen when those little bastards started going AWOL. A double insult if you ask me. Now those men are gone and beef enchilada is all we got left. Hell, I can barely stand the smell of it anymore. Believe you me, I’d donate my manhood for a better option, but right now there isn’t one out there and I’m prepared to live with that. So before you go asking yourself what all of this means, let me make it perfectly clear. Colonel Upton left us with a strict set of orders. I may not like those orders—fact, I may despise them—but they’re mine and I swore to obey them, not like those cowards who decided to cut and run.”

  As alarmed as he was over the dire situation in Encendido, Dale couldn’t help but feel sorry for Major Gruber. Yes, he wanted to throttle the guy, but here was a man trying to do his duty in an impossible situation. Misguided or not, there was a certain nobility in that.

  “Has your CO reached out yet?” Dale asked. It was a simple question and yet a series of complicated emotions flashed across Gruber’s face.

  The major shook his head, but didn’t say a word.

  “What if he never calls?” For a moment, Dale wanted to elaborate. Far from disbanding, it was much more likely what remained of his battalion had been thinned out by H3N3, leaving a few shell-shocked survivors to wander a desert wasteland, picked off by hunger or something far worse. Yes, Dale considered saying all of that, but instead he remained tight-lipped.

  Gruber squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with the pads of his fingers. “Of course I’ve considered that possibility. If there’s one thing we got plenty of around here, it’s time to think. But I swore an oath…” His voice faltered.

  Most of the soldiers who had remained were kids, many too young to buy alcohol. They had probably never questioned their superior officer’s decision. The chances that Colonel Upton and tens of thousands of military brass just like him were long dead were undeniable. Dale knew it, and deep down Gruber knew it too. All that remained was for the major to say the words out loud. Doing so would free him of this useless burden and allow him to redeploy his men to take on a mission that might actually do some good.

  “The military is gone, Major,” Dale pressed him. “You and I both know it.” He watched Gruber’s resolve beginning to waver. The soldiers gathered in the room stared on in amazement. “But there is still some good that you and your men can do to save what’s left of our country, stop its citizens from being overrun and enslaved.”

  Slowly, Gruber lifted his head and parted his dried, cracking lips. He was about to say something when they heard a thunderous boom outside. On the roof above them, the three .50 cal machine-gun emplacements sprang into action.

  Major Gruber’s eyes suddenly cleared as he jumped to his feet.

  The base was under attack.

  Chapter 30

  First Sergeant Mendez began barking orders. The men raced to their battle stations. Parked behind the diner was a row of three Humvees with roof-mounted .50 cal machine guns. Next to them was the unit’s only functioning M3 Bradley Fighting Vehicle.

  Mendez handed Dale back his rifle and led him to the roof. When they arrived, Gruber was already there, ordering his men to key positions. The empty trailer from an eighteen-wheeler had been positioned to bridge the rooftops between the diner and the motel.

  Dale peered out, assessing the incoming threat. To their left, three Toyota pickup trucks, each with a handful of cartel enforcers, were attempting to circle around behind the base. They bounced around as they drove off road, the men in the cab firing wildly. Three more were out front, engaging the men on the roof. To their right, two armed Humvees with Brigade soldiers were attempting to take out the .50 cal position over by the motel.

  Gruber got on the walkie. “Private Culver, come around with the Bradley on our right flank.”

  “All right, working on it, sir. But this engine’s not starting.”

  Gruber swore, “Then hit the starter with the manual engine hatch bar.” He then turned to the others, calling out other targets for his men to engage.

  Armed with M4s, many of them had dropped into a prone position, firing back at the enemy, who now seemed to be approaching from all sides. Others on the ground level took cover behind whatever they could, engaging the cartel soldiers as well as the vehicles they were driving in.

  Finally Burrows and Carmichael came onto the roof, towing a mortar and a case of ammunition.

  Others braved the incoming fire to shuffle over the improvised bridge and help support the right flank.

  One of the cartel pickups slowed long enough for the men onboard to hop off. Dale flicked the selector of his rifle to semi-automatic, eyed the scope on his weapon and acquired his first target—an enforcer down on one knee shooting in their direction.

  Three trigger pulls dropped him into the dirt. Just then the .50 cal nearby swung around and filled the air with lead, kicking up a deafening cloud of dust with every impact.

  What the cartel didn’t know was that this entire area had been mapped out by the artillery men beforehand. When another Toyota stopped to unload its men, Burrows dialed in the coordinates a second before Carmichael dropped a mortar into the tube, yelling, “Fire in the hole.” With a hollow thud the projectile arced through the air, landing three feet from the vehicle, killing the men around it, and causing the truck to burst into flames.

  Vega ran back from the motel to call for help. Private Frey, who was manning the .50 cal, had been hit and killed. Just then a plume of black smoke rose from bel
ow them as the Bradley’s engine roared to life. It pulled out at high speed, turning left, its top-mounted 25mm chain gun swiveling in the same direction. Within seconds, it was opening up on the enemy.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  Dale watched as hot tracers left the Bradley’s barrel, impacting one of the Brigade’s Humvees, killing everyone inside. That was when the battle began to turn. The four remaining pickups and one remaining Brigade Humvee wheeled around and sped off at a high rate of speed.

  Dale stood, watching the growing beige cloud mark their retreat.

  At once, Gruber was on the walkie. “Casualty report.”

  There was static before answers started coming back. “One dead and two wounded, sir,” Mendez replied, anger and sadness in his voice. These men were the only family many of them had left.

  Other soldiers were already checking the enemy left on the battlefield, collecting weapons and piling the dead. Any survivors would be held prisoner and questioned. But given that one of the Lost Boys had been killed, there was little chance that any of the cartel would receive much in the way of mercy.

  Dale followed Gruber over to Frey’s body. Some of his fellow soldiers had already covered him with a blanket.

  A handful stood staring down at him.

  “Is this the first time you’ve been attacked?” Dale asked.

  Gruber nodded, absently.

  “They’ll be back, you know that,” Dale went on. “The cartel doesn’t give up until it gets what it wants.”

  “They want our weapons,” Gruber said, rubbing the dog tags dangling around his neck.

  “Maybe they do,” Dale replied. “But more than that, they want you out of the way. This was only a probing attack. To find out what you were made of. They’ll return and when they do, they’ll bring friends.”

  Major Gruber slid the dog tags back under his shirt and held Dale in a determined gaze. “You say Encendido’s thirty miles west of here?”

  Dale nodded.

  Gruber got on the walkie again. “Mendez, mobilize the company. Tell them to pack up anything and everything. We’re moving out.”

  Dale smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing,” he assured him.

  Major Gruber placed his hands on his hips and turned his face up to the searing sun. “I sure hope you’re right.”

  After helping to clear the dead and care for the wounded, Dale asked Private Ahiga to join him in the communications room.

  “You heard Mendez, we gotta strike camp.”

  Dale pulled him close. “Heading into Encendido blind would not be a wise move. Do me a favor, contact Skinwalker again and tell him to find C Company a new base of operations on the outskirts of town.”

  “Is that all?” Ahiga asked.

  “No,” Dale said grimly. “Whatever’s left of the resistance needs to mobilize at once. And tell them to be ready for a fight.”

  Chapter 31

  The military efficiency with which C Company operated was truly a sight to behold. Within no time, Zulu was packed up and prepped for the journey to Encendido. Any traveler stumbling into Big Jim’s an hour from now would probably never know the army was ever here. Only the spent bullets casings gave any indication. In the unlikely event any military personnel came looking for Major Gruber, he left a note spray-painted on the diner’s front window. It read, C Company’s new home: Encendido.

  And with that final act complete, the heavily armed convoy headed west along Interstate 10 and then south on Highway 80.

  Tucked comfortably between the Bradley and the other tankers, Dale was in the middle of the pack, driving the same water truck he had arrived at Zulu in. With Fernando’s men likely licking their wounds, there was little doubt the thirty-mile trip would be largely uneventful.

  Following Ahiga’s call, Skinwalker had instructed them to head for the water treatment plant on the eastern edge of Encendido. Given that water had been the source of Dale’s problems, it was a location which held a certain amount of irony. The plant had largely been left to fall apart once the power cut out. Since then, most of the unsafe water stored there had slowly evaporated in the heat.

  They arrived a short time later, the Humvees and the Bradley making a quick sweep of the area to ensure they weren’t walking into a trap. When the all-clear was given, the soldiers dismounted. Some began unpacking supplies and carrying them into the treatment facility offices while the rest set up a perimeter.

  After Dale pulled his truck up alongside the others he stepped out. He’d wondered the whole way here whether Skinwalker had told his loved ones that he was alive and heading home. For a second, he thought he heard someone call his name. But with the frantic beehive of activity around him, he figured he must be hearing things.

  Then came the sound of excited barking. Dale glanced up just in time to see Duke tear around the back end of a parked vehicle and leap into his arms, nearly knocking him over. The dog whimpered as he licked Dale’s face, his furiously wagging tail whipping up tiny dust devils.

  “Easy, boy,” he pleaded. “Yes, I’m happy to see you too.”

  He had barely recovered from Duke’s onslaught of affection when Sandy showed up, tears in her eyes. She threw herself into his arms and they hugged for a long time. Soon, Brooke was there too. It was the sort of emotional reunion you saw on TV when wrongfully convicted men were finally released from prison. And in a way, Dale supposed the analogy wasn’t that far off.

  Standing a few feet away was Zach, arms crossed over his chest, his head cocked to the side. “Glad you could finally make it,” he moaned, holding out his hand.

  Dale pulled him into a hug, patting his back. Other faces Dale knew were nearby. Dannyboy, Travis and Caesar.

  “As much as I hate to cut this love fest short,” Sandy said, her arm firmly linked through his, “there’s a lot we need to discuss and not a second to lose.”

  •••

  Randy

  To say there were fewer townspeople assembled for the hangings than Randy had expected was a serious understatement. Surveying those milling about Memorial Park, he spotted plenty of cartel enforcers and members of the Brigade, decked out in their desert fatigues, a crowd of fewer than fifty men. Little by little, some of Randy’s deputies began trickling in, each group mingling only among themselves.

  Handing Nobel to the cartel had mostly been a calculated act of self-preservation. With the resistance fractured, Randy recognized her ability to organize an effective revolt had been greatly diminished. But what Randy hadn’t counted on was Fernando’s men scooping Betty Wilcox up in their net. From the moment she had collected evidence of the sheriff’s murderous past, her days had been numbered. Following her arrest, he had even swung by the landfill searching for the medical files incriminating him. He had come up empty. But, he supposed, none of that mattered. If he couldn’t destroy Dr. Peterson’s reports, then at least he could destroy the next best thing.

  It wasn’t long before the prisoners were marched out for an impromptu hearing. Among them was an old couple Randy vaguely knew as Walter and Ann, along with two other members of the resistance caught defending Nobel at the landfill.

  He watched them, sweating under the hot Arizona sun. They looked exhausted and beat up from hours of interrogation. He was confident that death would be a welcome end to their pain. Randy was also certain that the cartel would eventually be defeated. Getting Betty out of the way now would guarantee him a seat at the governing table once the dust of battle cleared.

  Keith moved next to him. They were waiting for Fernando to appear and adjudicate the show trial.

  The deputy leaned in and whispered, “Dale is back.”

  Randy tried his best to mute his surprise. “Is that right?”

  “We need to be ready,” Keith said, tapping the grip of his pistol. “The resistance could move at any time.”

  “You mean what’s left of it,” Randy replied.

  Keith remained quiet and Randy wondered if his deputy
was questioning his loyalty.

  “Spread the word to the other deputies,” Randy said. “And tell them to stock up on ammo.”

  •••

  Dale

  The offices at the water treatment plant were stifling hot. Not only because of the weather outside, but because the room was so packed that many were left standing outside. They were maybe fifty in number: Gruber and his men, Caesar and the bikers who remained, Zach and his Rangers, and about a dozen of Nobel’s resistance fighters.

  A dozen stood crowded around a table covered with maps of the town. According to intelligence given to them by Keith, Fernando and most of his force were gathering for Nobel’s execution. Dale told them in no uncertain terms that such a high-value target might be their only opportunity to catch all of Fernando’s men in one place. It also meant that other key locations throughout the city would be lightly defended.

  Major Gruber eyed the map, tracing his finger along the main avenues which divided the town. Coronado Boulevard to the north and south, El Camino to the east and west. The sheriff’s office was also only a few feet from Memorial Park, which would help to further consolidate Fernando’s men.

  “Memorial Park is our killing ground,” Major Gruber told them. “C Company and I will move up from the south, engaging the enemy and freeing the prisoners, while the rest of you box them in from the north.” The major raised his hands and squeezed an imaginary ball. “You will be the anvil and we’ll be the hammer. They’ll be out in the open and under fire from every direction.”

  “You sure this is gonna work?” Zach asked, doubtful.

  Major Gruber grinned. “It worked just fine for Alexander the Great at the battle of Gaugamela. Facing superior numbers, Alexander engaged the Persian army with his heavy phalanx infantry in a frontal assault. While the Persian forces distracted, he ordered his cavalry to circle around and attack from the rear, hammering them into the Greek soldiers’ spear points.”