Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1)

by Steven Konkoly

  Even after initiating this major ecological disaster, Petrov still hadn’t finished wrecking the American landscape. Questionable land purchases in northern Kansas and eastern Colorado put him in a position to expand AgraTex north, putting a severe strain on the northern basin of the Ogallala Aquifer. Facing stiffer water-management policies in the states served by the aquifer, he conspired with state politicians and landowners across the Southwest to divert water from the Colorado River to his beleaguered agricultural investments, ultimately triggering the “water wars” that would turn Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, and large swaths of western Colorado into an area collectively known as “The Wasteland.”

  Most Americans were blissfully unaware that a reckless Russian oil baron had caused more damage to the United States in the 1920s than the entire Soviet Empire during the Cold War. Ironically, Petrov’s petro-billions couldn’t buy into the Texas oil cartel, which was ruthlessly controlled by John Peralta, CEO of the American Energy Institute.

  Peralta stood to lose the most if California cut economic ties to the union and took the final steps toward energy independence. That independence would be partially financed by significant tax increases levied against the petroleum industry in the state, accompanied by burdensome regulations. With a significant slice of AEI’s business portfolio invested in the California petroleum industry, AEI stood to lose billions of dollars every year to the changes suggested by secessionist politicians. Ethan Burridge, the majority stake owner of AEI, wasn’t about to let his California billions slip away. Burridge had worked everyone in the room to pool financial resources and broker the deal to unleash Cerberus on the secession crisis.

  “Thank you for coming on short notice,” said Burridge, motioning toward a mahogany bar tended by one of his security officers. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’ll have sparkling water with lime, please,” said Flagg. “I need to remain clearheaded. I just received encouraging news from one of my sources.”

  “I would hope so,” said Petrov. “I’m growing tired of bad news.”

  Flagg ignored Petrov altogether, staying focused on Burridge. “Primary and secondary targets will be terminated tonight,” said Flagg. “Intelligence sources have uncovered a very unique opportunity.”

  “We’ve heard this before,” said Petrov. “How many times?”

  He shot a nasty look at Petrov, then shifted it to Peralta when he piled on with “Too many times.” The American Energy Institute CEO avoided his glare, but the goddamn Russian stood his ground, staring at him defiantly.

  “I’ve dealt with worse than the likes of you before,” said Petrov, who then waved his tumbler of vodka at the group as a whole. “I’m not even sure why we continue to deal with these people,” he said, nodding at Flagg. “I told you this could be outsourced to a better group.”

  “Like the one you sent to kill Almeda?” asked Flagg. “My people made short work of those amateurs.”

  “They got the job done,” said Petrov, stiffening.

  Prichard locked eyes with Flagg and subtly shook his head.

  “That’s right,” said Petrov. “Listen to your masters.”

  Burridge laughed. “Jesus, Alexei.”

  “What?” asked the Russian, slamming down the rest of his drink.

  “Flagg’s people killed Almeda. Not yours. He cleaned up your mess,” said Burridge, pointing at Flagg.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Flagg said. “What’s done is done. Almeda’s assassination unexpectedly escalated the timeline, and we’ve experienced a few glitches getting the operation back on track.”

  “A few?” asked Petrov.

  “A few very unnecessary glitches, thanks to you,” Flagg snapped. “But I don’t get paid to dwell on mistakes. I get paid to fix them.”

  “Paid is the key term here,” said Petrov. “We pay you. You work for us. Keep that in mind.”

  “Can we move on?” asked Senator Mailer.

  “You’re not paying for this,” Petrov said. “I am. And I don’t like it when my investments underperform.”

  “You should have thought of that before buying AgraTex—at the height of the worst drought in US history,” said Congressman Wegman, eliciting nervous laughter from the rest.

  “All right. That’s enough,” said Burridge. “We’re all appreciably nervous about the past few days. What are you doing to iron this out, Mason? Sounds like we may have dragged you out here at the wrong time.”

  Flagg nodded, accepting his drink from the stocky, shoulder-holster-equipped bartender.

  “Highly classified Department of Defense server message traffic between Second Battalion, Fourth Marines commanding officer and First Marine Division indicate that a convoy will leave Camp Pendleton later tonight, headed for Marine Corps Air Station Yuma. The convoy was added to the First Division schedule last night, outside of the regular convoy pattern. The convoy manifest lists Captain David Quinn as the commander, along with twenty-four members of the Enhanced Counterinsurgency Platoon assigned to Quinn’s infantry company.

  “Every aspect of this convoy’s deployment is unusual. The timing. Quinn’s assignment. From what we can tell, he should be restricted to base, answering the provost marshal’s questions about Fisher,” said Flagg. “And this is the only way off base for either of them. San Diego County PD has effectively blockaded Camp Pendleton from the outside, and base security has locked it down from the inside.”

  Flagg took a long sip of the sparking water.

  “Quinn could not have ducked the Provost Marshall’s Office this long without support from his battalion commander. We strongly suspect that the convoy was scheduled on Quinn’s behalf, and that all of the targets will be onboard.”

  “What kind of convoy are we talking about?” asked Prichard.

  “Four AL-TAC armored vehicles,” said Flagg. “Standard armament profiles. Interstate 8 is considered a high-risk transit area due to its proximity to the border. With the right combination of weapons, we can take the convoy down.”

  Gary Silva shook his head. “Shit. That’s a whole different ball game.”

  “What’s the downside to letting them reach Yuma and pursuing them outside of California?” asked Peralta.

  “They could disappear after Yuma,” said Flagg, “and reappear at an inopportune time—in the wrong hands. We know the CLM is aware of Fisher. They undoubtedly hijacked a police drone to protect him. His testimony about what he saw at the Del Mar beach could be used against us. CLM has proven highly adept at using the media to their advantage. In their hands, Fisher could set One Nation’s timetable back significantly.”

  “Harboring a cop killer could turn the public against them,” said Bernal.

  “I don’t think so,” said Burridge. “The California public never heard a big-industry conspiracy theory they didn’t like, and the CLM has been working that fertile ground for the better part of the past decade. I think we need to put this Fisher thing to rest once and for all. We’ll have all of the primary targets in one place. After that, we mop up the parents and consider any additional liabilities. I want this operation back on track.”

  “You better be sure they’re in those vehicles,” said Senator Mailer. “Wiping out a Marine convoy is a big deal.”

  Flagg grinned. “The secessionists will stop at nothing to liberate California from the oppressive federal government. Why should they let the deaths of a few federal enforcers get in the way? Have you heard some of the more radical CLM activists speak about the military occupation of the state? I’m confident we can spin the convoy attack against them.”

  “First, you have to take out the convoy,” said Petrov. “Of that, I am not so confident.”

  Flagg ignored the comment, nodding at Burridge. “Mr. Burridge, if you don’t mind, I’d like to fly back to San Diego immediately. I’d prefer to coordinate this in person.”

  “I agree,” said Burridge. “Let’s get you back to the airport.”

  Saul Prichard followed Burridg
e and Flagg to the elevator. Burridge stopped them when they were out of earshot of the group.

  “Are you sure this will work?” asked Burridge. “Four armored vehicles sounds like a challenge to me. I’m half tempted to let them get to Yuma and have you pursue them outside of the state. The wastelands can be an unforgiving place.”

  “That’s completely up to you, Mr. Burridge,” said Flagg, glancing at Prichard, who nodded in agreement. “My primary concern is that we don’t know what’s waiting for them in Yuma. There’s something else I didn’t want to bring up with the group, especially around Petrov.”

  “Don’t worry about Petrov,” said Burridge. “If the guy wasn’t so easy to coax money out of, he would have preceded the governor.”

  “This discovery carries a risk to Petrov’s livelihood, which makes me very worried about him.”

  “What did you find?” asked Burridge.

  “Nathan Fisher received two degrees from UC Davis. A bachelor’s degree in civil engineering, followed by a master’s in water-resource management.”

  “We already know he’s a water-reclamation engineer, specializing in toilet-to-tap systems,” said Pritchard.

  “But that wasn’t his primary focus in school. He wrote his master’s thesis on the Colorado River crisis, specifically on how to solve the water-rights controversy sparked by our Russian friend. The paper’s conclusion is particularly radical, focusing heavily on the need for the Bureau of Reclamation to either convince the upper-basin states to let more water flow through the dams or seize control of the dams by force.”

  Burridge’s eyebrows lifted. “Pretty hawkish attitude for a mild-mannered water engineer.”

  Flagg shrugged. “There was no denying the strategic importance of those dams, even for a pacifist grad student. Fisher spent three summers interning at various dams, pumping plants and aqueduct points along the river, studying some highly classified infrastructure systems. I read the entire seventy-page document on the flight, and Fisher displays a disturbingly deep knowledge of these systems. If I were running CLM’s operations, I’d be keen to enlist his aid, or bargain for it by guaranteeing his safety.”

  “Enlist his aid for what, exactly?” asked Burridge.

  “To help them restore previously agreed-upon water-flow levels to Southern California. That’s been one of CLM’s primary goals from the beginning. Combining the current level of water production from the state’s desalination plants with long-developed water-conservation habits would leave California with an abundance of water if historic Colorado River flows were restored.”

  “Good luck to them with that,” said Burridge. “I still don’t see how Fisher’s knowledge of the system would help them, beyond serving as a technical consultant to lobbying efforts, which we all know would go nowhere.”

  “Exactly. Negotiations and lobbying are pointless at this stage in the game. The Bureau of Reclamation hasn’t lifted a finger since the upper basin turned off the water, and the politicians that matter are all comfortably in Petrov’s pockets. But there’s another way to restore the water flow. Concrete and steel bend to a different kind of pressure than politicians.”

  Burridge considered his last sentence for several moments.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” said Burridge.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But if I was drawing up plans to bring the Colorado River back to California by less than peaceful means, and wanted to maximize my resources, I’d want Fisher on my team to identify which dams strategically packed the biggest punch. Trust me, you don’t want this guy falling into CLM hands.”

  “Very well. We’ll take out the convoy,” said Burridge. “And keep this aspect of your assessment out of the reports. I don’t need Petrov running his own personal war outside of the council. Losing control of the Colorado River water will hit him hard.”

  “You can be assured of my discretion. The road ends tonight for Fisher and Quinn.”

  This earned appreciative grunts from Burridge and Pritchard, and would’ve served as a perfect exit line if the damn elevator wasn’t so slow. Flagg filled the time by shaking each of their hands in turn, before at last stepping onto the elevator and repeatedly pressing the garage-level button. He had far more important things to do.

  PART V

  CHAPTER 71

  Nathan Fisher stood next to his AL-TAC, encased in full combat gear. He checked his watch and waited for Quinn to finish talking to the vehicle commanders. The small huddle broke apart quietly a few moments later, each leader returning to his assigned vehicle. Quinn jogged toward Nathan, stopping a few feet away.

  “How are Owen and Keira doing?” asked Quinn.

  “Owen looks like he may be having too much fun. He wants to sit in the turret.”

  “He can check out the turret when we get to Yuma, if he’s still awake. You have a good kid on your hands. I see a future Marine in the making.”

  “Please don’t say that in front of my wife.”

  Quinn laughed. “I won’t. She looks about as happy as Alison right now.”

  “Keira will feel better once we’re out of California. I don’t know about your wife.”

  “This wasn’t how she saw the week ending.”

  “None of us did. Has your dad reached my parents?”

  “Not yet. He made a few stops along the way to pick up some friends. They’ll link up either late tomorrow or the next day. He has a call scheduled with your dad for nine a.m. Eight a.m. our time. We can send your dad a digital message right before the call and let him know to call my satphone as soon as they finish. Sorry I haven’t been able to make a call happen sooner. The survivalist compound hiding them has strict rules about communications. Someone has to drive them to Missoula to make calls.”

  “As long as they’re safe, I’m happy. I hate to think I dragged them into this mess,” said Nathan.

  “We all came along willingly. Except my wife,” said Quinn, grinning. “Speaking of disgruntled wives, we probably shouldn’t hold this show up any longer.”

  “Thanks again for all of this,” said Nathan.

  “Don’t thank me until we get there.”

  Nathan stepped onto the metal running board under his door and grabbed an internal handle, lifting his heavy ballistic-armor-sheathed body into the rear passenger seat. Once situated in the oversize harness-equipped chair, he pulled the door shut, sealing his family inside the AL-TAC. The armored door’s internal mechanism clicked, followed by a faint hiss.

  “What was that?” asked Nathan, holding on to the door handle.

  David Quinn turned his head in the front seat ahead of him and leaned to the left so he could see Nathan. “The vehicle automatically achieves positive pressure when all of the doors and hatches are shut. Protection against any type of biological or chemical attack. Works wonders if we hit a skunk. You won’t smell a thing.”

  “Great.”

  “Ready to go dark?” asked Quinn.

  “Hold on. I need to snap in to the harness.”

  After securing the final harness point, Nathan twisted far enough in the constrained seat to take in the cramped rear-troop compartment behind him. Two seats were bolted to each side of the vehicle, facing the tight center aisle. Keira and Owen, wearing head-conforming ballistic helmets, sat across from each other in the seats nearest him, strapped into full-vest harnesses. Alison Quinn was locked into the seat beyond Keira, looking at the empty station next to Owen.

  “You guys okay?” he said.

  “How long is the trip?” asked Keira.

  “Two and a half hours. Roughly.”

  “I’m feeling a little claustrophobic,” she said.

  Quinn’s voice echoed inside his helmet. “The harness system takes some getting used to. The vests are attached to the vehicle’s gyroscopic impact and maneuver mitigation system—GIMMS, for short—which will keep your body comfortably in one place should the vehicle make any drastic maneuvers. Not that I’m expecting any. If you slam your helmet back, GIMMS will stabilize your he
ad as well, so if you get sleepy and your head flies back, don’t panic if the seat holds your head in place.”

  “How do you get your head loose?” asked Keira.

  “Raise either hand and pull the red handle directly above you,” said Quinn. “This deactivates GIMMS for two seconds. Pull down on the handle three times consecutively to deactivate the system.”

  “Why would you need to do that?” asked Nathan.

  “In case the vehicle is disabled and you need to get out,” said Quinn. “Not that we’ll have to worry about that. Ready to kill the lights?”

  “Do you have to turn them off?” asked Keira.

  “We’ll use red lights until we get to El Centro. Beyond that, we run tactical. The cabin goes pitch-black. Night vision only. Each of your helmets has built-in night-vision capability. Pull down on the goggles built into the front of your helmet and you’ll be in business. Any more questions before we step off?”

  Nathan reached back, grabbed one of Owen’s hands, and pulled it toward the center of the compartment, where Keira grasped them with both of her hands. She shook her head.

  “This is crazy,” she said.

  “This is awesome,” said Owen.

  “Crazy awesome,” Nathan agreed, turning his head to nod at Quinn. “Let’s do this.”

  “Roger that,” said Quinn, and the vehicle’s cabin went pitch-black.

  Gradually, the subdued red-lighting system illuminated the cabin. In the new red glow, Nathan scanned his surroundings. To his immediate left, a pair of legs dangled from a restrictive-looking mechanical harness that held Corporal Reading in the AL-TAC’s armored turret. Just beyond the corporal’s legs, Sergeant Graves pressed one of several dimly illuminated touch screens imbedded into the back of the driver’s seat. Quinn had explained that Graves monitored and controlled the AL-TAC’s sophisticated electronics systems and sensors from that console. In the driver’s seat in front of Graves, Private First Class Artigas popped an energy drink can, taking a long sip.