Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft

by Henry G. Foster

  “He does that with important things, anyway. This particular message seems important enough to warrant that coding, yet it isn’t coded that way.”

  “What does that tell you, if you don’t mind sharing classified information with an enlisted man with no clearance or college education, Colonel General Sir?”

  “You’re such a shitbird, Eagan. Do you have to ask? We’re not back at base shining shoes and prepping for locker inspection.”

  Eagan smiled and crouched down nearby within easy hearing distance as Taggart continued in a softer voice, “Listen, these are orders from General Houle, supposedly passed on through Dark Ryder via the 20s as usual. That’s trouble. He knows something. The short version is that they’re movement orders for a new mission. So somehow they know we’re not in the Big Apple anymore. And they’re pretending to be Dark Ryder because they’re testing him. Or us. Who knows what Dark Ryder told them? We need to find out before we answer.”

  “I figured that much out,” Eagan commented. “I thought they might have a satellite or something, checking up on us. Dark Ryder said something about another bird up there.”

  “Satellite? Maybe. Maybe a leak. Maybe something else. It doesn’t matter. But the orders? They do matter. We are ordered by the Commander-in-Chief, under blah blah executive order authorizing him to yadda yadda, to relocate about one-hundred-sixty klicks west, near Allentown, Pennsylvania, and set up guerrilla resistance operations there—”

  The sounds of shouting reached him, and Taggart cut himself off to listen, his hand reaching for his rifle. When it was clear they weren’t under attack, he relaxed a little. “Eagan, go stop whatever’s going on over there. I need to read this. Let me know what’s up.”

  Eagan left while Taggart went over the mission orders again. They were pretty clear—this was a direct order from the Commander-in-Chief, or someone claiming that authority at least. The last he had heard, the President had died en route to some bunker, but there would of course be people lining up to be in charge of a country that no longer existed. Houle, probably.

  Why would they be ordered west? He had reported all this food-producing slavery crap, with a loose description of the strategic and tactical situations—nothing that a leak could use against them, but enough to show how vital his operations were—and whoever received those on the other end couldn’t possibly have any situation more important than this one. Taggart had the opportunity here to knock out an entire theater of operations for the enemy, and restore food and order to several states at once. A reborn America, or a good start, really. He had the equipment and manpower to do it here, the troops and loyalty to get it done, and a unique opportunity to finish Ree fast. Yet Houle, or someone else, wanted to short-circuit that opportunity. Why?

  Eagan returned, cutting into his dark thoughts. “Sir, you’ll want to see this. Private Johns!” he barked, and one of the liberated civilians who had joined his forces approached the fire. “This is Colonel Taggart himself, so show some respect, but tell him what you told me.”

  “Johns” looked nervous, but nodded and stepped forward. He tried to salute—awkwardly, like a civilian—but Eagan stopped him. “No saluting in the field. Snipers.”

  Pvt. Johns nodded again and then looked to Taggart with an expression akin to adoration. Taggart was almost a living legend in these parts by now, especially since he had released two hundred thousand slaves already and set up a guerrilla army one hundred thousand strong. They were rampaging against the enemy like no one had since the invasion began, fueled by rage at what had been done to them. The guy looked like he was going to shit himself in awe, for Christ’s sake.

  Taggart gentled his voice and said, “Go ahead, son. What do you have for me?”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m… honored to meet you. Can I just say—”

  “Son, I’m busy running a war. Just tell me what you have to say and then Eagan here will get you set up with chow and a spot to get some rest.”

  “Oh, um. Yes, sir. Well, we were scouting out a bunch of those enemy bases, the ones they use to keep the slaves in check and gather up supplies and stuff, and they’re all dead, sir. All those civilian slaves, from at least five bases. Maybe more. The ’vaders took them, bashed their heads in, and slit their throats. They left thousands at each base, stacked up like cordwood. They burned everything else, but left a note at each base. They’re all the same note, written in Korean.”

  Taggart froze in place, struggling to contain his anger. Those bastards… It couldn’t be real, could it? But of course it could. They weren’t human, not really. They’d do all sorts of inhumane things. They fried whole cities with gas, why not a few thousand slaves to leave a message? “Did anyone know enough Korean to translate these notes?”

  “Sir, they’re all the same note. Printed out and everything. We think they’re, like, military documents from before the EMPs hit back.”

  “Again—did they get translated?” Taggart was angry, but he knew it wasn’t this guy’s fault. He just wanted to lash out, but best to do it to the right people. “It’s important. We need to know what those notes said.”

  “Yessir, we got part of it translated. We have a guy who had Korean grandparents, like from Korea, and he knew some of it. I brought the copy we translated for you.”

  Taggart held out his hand, and Johns handed him a sheet of thick paper about half the size of printer paper, torn along one edge. The translator had done about half of it, his notes printed on the paper under each line of double-spaced, tiny printing. The text layout definitely had the look and feel of military orders, or maybe some sort of manual.

  He froze stiff when he read it. “The fuck…” It was some sort of military General Order, a contingency plan dated from before the actual invasion even started, stating that if American forces—which they called “traitors to the New American Cause”—threatened to retake an occupied area, it was to be “rendered of no materiel or personnel value” to the re-occupying forces. It was a goddamn Scorched Earth policy that the commanding officers could institute at will.

  “Johns, thank you, son. Go get chow.” He turned and raised his voice as he said, “Eagan, show Johns where to go and then you’re with me.” Taggart’s face was grave, and Eagan took only a minute to return.

  “What is the terrible news, sir? You look about ready to kill someone.”

  “The North Koreans in charge of this side of the war left us a copy of contingency orders. From here on out, if they see us coming they’ll kill every slave operating out of that base and torch whatever supplies, weapons, and food they can’t run away with.”

  “Seriously?” Eagan now looked pale in the reddish light of the fire and as nauseated as Taggart himself felt.

  “Thousands dead. I’ll guess twenty thousand, maybe more, based on how many slaves we’ve been finding at these little ’vader bases.” Taggart paused, then continued, “I got a question for you, Eagan.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Talk to me like I was still your sergeant when you answer this. What do you think are the odds of getting orders from the 20s, which pretend to but did not go through Dark Ryder, telling us to move out of this region, right before the enemy begins Scorched Earth policies?”

  Eagan clenched his jaw. “Given that we haven’t even had time to mention this in our reports… You know, it struck me as odd that we didn’t get a heads-up this was coming, back when the EMPs first hit. Something that big would get noticed. I mean, how many people in Korea and the Middle East had to know about this invasion to get something that big organized and executed? It had to be a lot. But nobody warned us.”

  “Don’t forget the Russians in Alaska and the rest of the West Coast. And maybe the Chinese for all we know.” Taggart spit into the fire, relishing the angry, violent hiss of moisture hitting the red coals. It fit his mood entirely too well.

  “So what are we going to do, Sarge?” Eagan said in a dead voice.

  Taggart knew that was his insubordinate way of saying
he should think like an enlisted man serving his country, not an officer serving some distant general. Maybe he was right.

  “I don’t know yet, Eagan. We have orders to abandon two million enslaved Americans. For now, we delay until I can decide on a long-term strategy. But I do know one thing—we’re not in Hotel Company anymore. We stopped being in the Regular Army chain of command a long time ago. Today, we embrace the madness. We’re going to start being what the troops and civvies have been calling us all along.”

  Eagan grinned, a vicious look. A predatory look. “Yes, sir. It’s about time we started acting like it. Welcome to Taggart’s Titans, sir. That’s what the troops call us. We’ve been there for a while, waiting for you to join us.”

  * * *

  Ethan decoded the message from the 20s by way of Watcher One, and when his computer chirped the alert that the operation was finished, he sorted through them. After skimming the ones he could decipher, he forwarded it to the outgoing cache to deliver to Taggart. Toward the end of those messages, one caught his attention.

  “From the Commander-in-Chief to Taggart? I haven’t seen that before.” He skimmed further and a frown crept across his face. “It just says to hurry up and follow his move orders.”

  A chill settled across the room, and the hair on his arms stood up with goosebumps. Something was not right about that. Someone else was talking to Taggart, bypassing him, and he had no idea what those orders were… nor who sent them. Ethan felt a rising panic wash over him.

  From behind him, arms around his chest, Amber said, “When did we pass along movement orders? Yesterday? I wasn’t here, so—”

  “That’s the thing. He got orders some other way. We never sent him move orders.”

  Amber froze briefly, and Ethan turned in her arms to face her. Her eyes were wide and frightened-looking. “We got trouble in River City,” he told her, his voice shaky.

  She nodded. “We have to warn Taggart.”

  “Jesus,” he breathed, thinking of the high-res satellite images of Clanholme they kept sending him. “They know where we live.”

  - 18 -

  0930 HOURS - ZERO DAY +170

  NESTOR LEANED AGAINST a tree and looked over his survivors. Three women and two men—including Natalie and Randy—remained from his original group, along with another half-dozen men and women he had liberated in the past few days who had chosen to follow him. His mind wandered to one of the followers who died earlier this morning, a young woman who looked a lot like Kaitlyn, the Clan child he had saved from dogs. It had been Kaitlyn really, who set him on this new path in life. For giving him the opportunity to redeem himself, he loved her almost like a daughter—like the daughter he lost long ago, whose death had set him on the path that led eventually to saving Kaitlyn and her older friend Brianna.

  That long chain of events in his life stretched back behind him in his mind. He sensed a purpose now, some faint glimmering of a new destiny that now seemed to have guided every step he took. Every loss, every victory, the hardships and the blessings—all had led him inexorably here. This was where he was meant to be, where he was needed. Roaming the woods with a band of fellow lost souls, finding meaning through each other and through their mission of destroying the ’vaders so that others, less lost than they, could rest at ease.

  He suspected they would all die soon, violently, one at a time or all at once. Whatever happened, their deaths would accomplish something greater than his life ever had in the years leading up to now. Was it God guiding him? Some other higher power with a higher purpose? He felt as though he could almost glimpse the threads that formed the web of events that defined his life, both the past and, less clearly, what would come. He recognized this as a holy moment, even if “epiphany” was too fancy a word for the likes of him.

  You need me, Nestor. Cut the posturing. Let me free. This is my game to play, not yours.

  “Shut up, Other. I let you out when I need you. You have a role to play in this destiny, too, or you wouldn’t have afflicted me. You’d be in someone else, some other dead person. Gone with the rest of America, the rest of the Earth.”

  You’re no poet, Nestor. Once, I ruled you, remember? It can happen again.

  “You ruled when it was destined that you should. You killed my daughter, but it led me to the Facility. After the EMPs, you killed more, and I was stoned and barely escaped alive, but I did escape. Me, not you. And that set us both on this path.”

  Your “Great Destiny.” Rubbish. You’re a psycho and a killer, just like me. You are me. We dance the same Waltz to the same bloody music.

  “Perhaps. But I recognize God’s hand in this, and your time of taking me is done—because I’m here, where I am meant to be. We both serve the same destiny. Now it is His will that you serve me. Stop complaining. I let you out to dance your Waltz when needed.”

  When no answer came, and having lost the flavor of the moment he had been savoring, Nestor rose and went to his followers. They knew he talked to himself, but no one said anything about it. He had saved their lives and given them a new purpose after they lost their families, their old lives, everything but the heart that beat in their chests—maybe the gods he talked to would save them, too, they probably supposed. Nestor knew they felt this and thanked God, or Destiny, for the gift of followers. They made his purpose easier.

  And he had been achieving his purpose spectacularly since the battle separated him from the Clan and from Kaitlyn. In saving her from the feral dogs, he had become responsible for her life. She would probably never know the debt he owed her—she had given him purpose. Protect Kaitlyn. Protect her Clan. The Clan was destined for something great, and it was his own destiny to help them achieve theirs.

  That was why he stayed to fight instead of fleeing when his group escaped the pursuing invaders after that battle. In the days that followed, how many Arabs and Koreans had he and his people killed? The invaders had lost many dozens to his band of guerrillas. Maybe more than a hundred, with half as many slaves now freed to live their own lives for however long they lasted in this grim new America. The cost of those victories had been losing five of his own group, but those who remained were hardened and were learning the Other’s lessons fast. Some of the freed slaves always joined the group, too. And for the price of those five brave American fighters, he cost the invaders enough lives that they had been noticeably thinned out now. Fewer patrols, and they didn’t venture as far from Adamstown as they once had.

  They had a name for his group, now—Night Ghosts, a label he assumed lost something in translation. They feared him now. Nestor clenched his fist, rage building against them as the Other began scratching to get out. They should fear us. He couldn’t tell if that last thought was his own or the Other’s.

  * * *

  Taggart and his HQ encamped in the lee of a long, low hill, fighting the cold wind and the snow. His stomach rumbled, telling him with the precision of a watch that it was now lunchtime, but he put thoughts of food aside.

  Eagan said, “Are you sure it’s wise to stay offline completely? We might be missing vital orders and intel. Or a heads-up from your Dark Ryder…”

  Taggart nodded, looking at a map of the area that was marked up in pencil with any information he thought might be useful. “Aff. The longer we can stay offline, the longer I can put off making a decision about our orders.”

  “They aren’t my orders, sir. At least, that’s how I will look at it, and I’m not alone.”

  “You’d disobey Houle’s orders? Even if I left the area? That’s pretty harsh.” Taggart looked up from the map at Eagan, judging his aide’s body language. Eagan didn’t look confrontational or even angry, just… resigned, as he returned a level gaze without answering. Yes. He’d make the choice to fight even if it cost him everything. A good man, that one.

  Taggart let out a long breath. “I tend to agree with you, Eagan. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to follow those orders, but the thought of leaving two million Americans to suffer doesn’t s
it well with me or with my Oath. The idea of splitting my command in half doesn’t sit well, either. Division in the face of a superior enemy rarely works out well.”

  Eagan opened his mouth to reply, but then froze. Taggart felt a flash of panic—adrenaline kept people alive, these days—and stopped to listen for whatever had set off Eagan. He heard—

  There. Not distant, a low rumble. Then his hand, resting on the rock where his map lay, felt a vibration. The sensation brought a weird feeling of déjà vu, and part of him fought to remember whatever had triggered the feeling before.

  Eagan croaked, “…Train…”

  That was it! The rumble was just like a train’s. But that was impossible—trains were dead… The rumble grew louder. It came from the far side of the hill. Taggart bolted for the hill and scrambled up the side, sliding a couple of times before getting to the top and flopping onto his belly to crawl the final yard to the crest. He peered carefully over the top.

  “No fucking way.” Eagan, beside him, stared down the far side of the hill.

  Down there were train tracks, but what was amazing was the rumble, growing louder. Down the line, coming around the corner, train cars! One, two, three… But no engine. Then he noticed the cars were pulled by the largest horses he had ever seen. He hadn’t seen many horses, but he knew enough to recognize these as big damn horses. A flag on the roof of the lead car showed a giant gold star over a red background. Those assholes were making the railways work again…

  “Eagan, imagine what’s so important to the enemy that they’d get the railways working again.”

  “Food, guns, or slaves, probably. More important, think of what could be so massive that moving it by rail with horses is easier than taking it by wagon? Whatever’s in there, I think there’s a lot of it.”