Burning Skies (Book 1): The Fall

by Ford, Devon C.

“I’m heading to Pittsburgh,” he told them. “I’ve got people there.”

  “And after that?” asked the one who wasn’t Cobb.

  “After that, I’m heading for the Kentucky militia,” he told them.

  Cobb and Not Cobb looked at each other and then back to Leland.

  “Why Kentucky?” Not Cobb asked.

  “Boys,” Leland said wistfully, “an Alabama tick ain’t got nothing on them Kentucky boys when they’re holed up in their hollers.”

  Seeing as Cobb and Not Cobb didn’t have a better suggestion, both of them were happy to tag along.

  Saturday, 1:12 p.m. - Still Valley, NJ

  “There,” Cal said, pointing to a sign, “pharmacy.” He glanced behind to see Louise opening and closing her mouth absently. She had drunk all of the drinks they had with them, but still complained of feeling thirsty. Cal had no doubt she could manage herself effectively with medication, but without it and having spent a night and a day on the run she was slipping in and out of cohesion. She wavered between twitchy and anxious, to sluggish and absent. Jake said nothing, but pulled off the main street in response.

  Pulling up directly outside the large store, Cal saw that it was the kind of place which sold everything from tools to groceries, and had probably been family-owned for at least a couple of generations before the franchise owning the pharmacy spread out like fungus and swallowed up the small business.

  The two men got out of the cab and drew their guns; Cal the Glock and Jake pulling the butt of the Mossberg into his shoulder and tugging it close with the barrel depressed to the ground. The place seemed deserted, although the sounds of cars on the highway nearby were loud with horns blasting as what seemed like the whole of Jersey headed west. There were signs that people had come by, but the place didn’t seem to have been ransacked from the outside. Finding the door open, Jake glanced to Cal to check if he was ready, and shouldered it open slowly to enter at a crouch with his eyes always pointing in the same direction as the barrel of the shotgun. A gentle tinkle of a bell above the door made the cop curse himself for not seeing it in time to prevent their entrance being announced. In spite of Jake’s training, they were instantly blindsided and the sound of another shotgun pumping a shell into the chamber was unmistakable.

  “That’s far enough,” said an accented voice from behind a low counter, “drop your weapons, please.”

  The manners are an interesting touch, though Cal, especially when being held at gunpoint. Jake took over the negotiations, speaking as he often did like he was reciting the NYPD playbook.

  “Okay, sir,” he said, taking his left hand away from the stock of his gun to appear less hostile but keeping his right hand by the trigger grip. “We don’t mean any harm and we don’t want any trouble; we’ve got a young lady in our care who needs medical attention.”

  As they both turned slowly, Cal’s eyes rested on a short man with smooth, rich brown skin and a jet-black beard. He wore a plain white shirt, collarless and done up to the very top, and a flash of brilliantly white teeth shone out between mustache and beard, and bright eyes shone out between mustache and the bright turban on his head. He held the gun uncertainly, like he wasn’t used to handling firearms, and Cal was sure that if he pulled the trigger the way he was holding the stock then the recoil would likely slam it into his face and remove those white teeth.

  “What kind of medical attention?” he asked, not changing the aim of the shotgun.

  “She’s diabetic, and she needs insulin,” Cal said. He opened his mouth to say more but the man cut him off.

  “When did she last inject, and what is her blood sugar like?” he asked intensely, his accent clearly not Americanized but easily understandable.

  “Yesterday, and she crashed out in the night, woke up all confused so we gave her candy and she got better for a while,” Jake told him.

  The man lowered his gun slightly, as if fighting an internal battle between self-preservation and helping others. “Bring her inside,” he told them, lowering the gun and placing it on the counter like his hands had been dirtied by it. “And be quick,” he added.

  Both Cal and Jake did as he asked, trusting the man instinctively given his response to the news that someone needed help. The bearded and turbaned man walked out from behind the counter and strode purposefully to the back of the store where his pharmacy was. A few people had come into the store since the previous day and the news reports. Some he had hidden from, fearing the responses of the ignorant being directed at him.

  Amrick Ali, commonly called Ricky as it was probably easier to accept his presence with an American sounding name, had lived in the United States for near on twenty years. Since the terror attacks of 2001 he had noticed a marked difference in the way people perceived him and his family. For starters, he was an Indian Sikh and not an Arab or Muslim as people nearly always assumed. He enjoyed a drink, and endured the constant comments like, “Hey, I thought your kind didn’t drink,” and “Isn’t that against your religion?”

  He was not a radicalized terrorist, nor did he believe in any loss of life being justified. He enjoyed his work, and he kept his head down to keep the people of the small town in check with their medication. He was accepted on the whole, but he was always wary. Now, having seen the reports of the terror attacks all over the continent, he was grateful for the first time that his wife and children had returned to his native Kashmir to visit relatives. They had been gone a little over two weeks, and he doubted he would ever see them again. His reverie was interrupted as the small bell above the door jingled again and the two men brought in a young woman who seemed lethargic and confused.

  “Sit her down there,” Amrick told them, indicating a row of plastic seats. He walked into the aisles of his drug supply, snatching up things as he went from the places he knew they would be. He returned to the customer side of the counter and leaned down to put his face close to Louise’s. Gently taking her left hand, he selected the ring finger and held it up before a small snapping sound produced a dot of blood on her fingertip. Holding a device with a protruding piece of paper to the blood he waited a few seconds with a furrowed brow.

  “Please,” he said to Jake over his left shoulder, “go to aisle four and bring back a bottle of Coca-Cola.” Jake left without a word. “Make sure it’s the real deal,” Amrick shouted to him, “and not that sugar-free stuff.”

  “Got it,” yelled Jake over the sound of his boots on the shiny shop floor.

  Cal watched as the man in the turban tore open the packaging on another box and produced what looked like a small epi-pen. As Jake returned with a warm can of soda, Amrick rolled up the sleeve of Louise’s top and jabbed the small needle into her arm.

  She didn’t flinch, whether that was because she had pierced her own skin so many times or whether she was crashing again Cal had no idea. Amrick gripped the ring pull and popped open the can before turning it and encouraging Louise to sip from it.

  “The sugary drink will speed up the process,” he told them. “When she is stabilized she will be able to manage it herself, at least I imagine so at her age,” he said. Leaving Louise sipping at the drink autonomously, Amrick straightened and spoke to the others.

  “My name is Amrick Ali,” he said. “I am the pharmacist here.”

  “Jake Peters,” Jake answered, “NYPD. This is Cal, he’s English.”

  Why Jake had to add Cal’s country of origin every time he introduced him made Cal furrow his brow; it was as though the cop was apologizing in advance for anything he might say or do, like he would suddenly produce a bowler hat and an umbrella.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Amrick answered. “Most people call me Ricky, and I suppose I have grown accustomed to being called this.”

  “How come you’re still here?” Jake asked him, getting straight to the point. Now that they were deeper inside the store it was obvious that at least one group of people had raided it for supplies. He thought it strange that the pharmacist stayed behind when ot
hers had already left town.

  “My wife and children have returned to India,” he told them, his eyes casting down, “and I am ashamed to admit that I have never learned to drive.” He finished lamely with his hands held open in an apologetic gesture.

  That explained a lot. An awkward silence hung amongst the three men, as though Ricky’s inability to drive was a matter of collective embarrassment.

  “You should come with us,” said a quiet voice from lower down. All three men turned to regard the expectant face of Louise, which now showed something resembling its true sparkle of her normal nature. Both Jake and Cal turned back to face him.

  “I have no idea where you are going,” he said, “but I believe my chances of doing any good here are small.” He flashed his brilliantly white teeth at them; such an infectious smile that both men returned it through simple cognitive programming to respond that way to another person’s happiness.

  Saturday 2 p.m. - Ripley, WV

  “Understood,” Drew Briar said into his satellite phone and hung up without saying anything else. Madeline Tanner didn’t wait for him to relay whatever news he had just received in his own time, and stalked toward him. She was mindful not to take out her fears and frustrations on the head of her security detail, but also wasn’t of a mind to wait any longer than she had to. They were holed up in the town diner, the three blacked out SUVs with their blue and red lights having drawn some attention from the locals.

  “Ma’am,” Drew said, his face a shade paler than when he had taken the call. “I’ve just spoken with what’s left of the military command. Whoever is attacking us is targeting all known military sites, and most of our communication network has been shut down along with power grids in most states.” He paused, knowing that the information he would have to give her got worse and infinitely more important. “Satellite communications are currently our only viable network, but we have no way of knowing how long that will last.”

  “And?” Madeline said, knowing that there was more to come. “What else?”

  “There are high-level assets in the state,” he told her, not going into any details as he had few, but he knew that the NSA communications site hidden in the mountains was most likely where that last call had originated from. “Assets have been deployed to the air force base in Charlestown, which are currently not responding to any communications, and will be en route here to extract you.”

  “Extract me to where?” she asked.

  “A safe site, ma’am,” he said, “but that’s not all …”

  “Go on,” Madeline said, narrowing her eyes as he seemed almost embarrassed.

  “Ma’am,” he said, raising his eyes to hers where she suspected there may be a glint of wetness. “Washington is gone, completely, and you need to be sworn in as soon as possible.”

  “Sworn in? Wh—” She stopped, the realization dawning on her.

  “Madame President,” Drew said formally, “these circumstances hardly dictate congratulations, but I’m honored to be at your service.”

  Madeline tanner, soon to be the first female President of the United States of America, and in the midst of a surprise war being waged on civilians with the worst casualty rate of any conflict in history, sat her ass down on a seat and let that shock wash over her like a flood.

  “Well, shiiit,” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  SNATCH AND GRAB

  Saturday 2:10 p.m. - Greenbrier Mountains

  “Let’s go,” Troy said, “wheels up in five.”

  The team had pored over the plans for their mission and waited for the word to go. Not thirty seconds after he had hung up the satellite phone was the first helicopter sparking into violent life and powering up. He had chosen to split the team, both the operators and the air assets. He now piled out the front door of the bunker with four of his team, taking both of their Black Hawks under the escort of a single Apache. This split of the team meant that he would be operating without a fire team partner, but it also meant leaving behind Chalky and the other four operators who could still be an effective fighting unit if his entire deployment didn’t make it back. It also meant taking all of their aircraft which could carry troops, but he hoped to rectify that and bring back more than they left with.

  Troy, climbing aboard the helicopter with Valdez and Farrell sat opposite Bones and Ghost, turned to give a thumbs-up to Gina Pilloni in the right-hand seat of the other Black Hawk. He switched his glance up to see that the Apache had already surged skywards under the control of Buck and Healey.

  Pulling on his headset handed to him by the loadmaster of his bird as they climbed in altitude, he called out on the squad net for his three helicopters.

  “Flight time is two-five minutes,” he said, “repeat, two-five until we are on site.” With that he sat back and closed his eyes, trying to visualize the ground he was heading for. Air force bases all over America, hell all over the world, were built the same way and if you’ve seen one, then you’ve pretty much seen them all. He hoped they would only be on the ground for a few minutes; after years of operating in obscure sandboxes and mostly in the dark, he felt like an alien walking around in full war gear in the daylight, and never before on US soil.

  He hadn’t told everyone the full extent of his orders—need to know and all that shit—but mostly he hadn’t told them the rest because he didn’t want anyone thinking that they had to do their job any different than they normally did.

  Saturday 2:34 p.m. - Outside Charlestown, WV

  The Apache flew ahead a half mile and circled the base once, radioing back that they saw nothing to raise any concerns. Flying straight in and flaring to land on the tarmac by the main building, the rotors of the two Black Hawks stayed turning ready to power up and lift at a moment’s notice. Troy and his team dropped their boots onto the dry blacktop and spread out professionally. Anything heading their way would, hopefully, be detected by the space-age array of sensors on the Apache which loitered menacingly way above their heads. Heading straight for the doorway of the nearest building, weapon up and approaching heel toe, heel toe, Troy stopped as the door opened before he could get there.

  The terrified eyes of the young man who opened it burned brightly, before the door slammed again. Troy, half expecting a response like this, threw himself to the wall beside the door and glanced back to see his team of four had similarly dispersed.

  “Captain Gardner, US Army,” he yelled through the closed door, mindful that their appearance was not that of a regular unit. Not by a long shot. “We’re here on orders,” he yelled, “coming in, DO NOT FIRE ON US.” The last instruction boomed out in a voice which cut through the rotor noise and burned into the very souls of younger, less experienced men. Chalky often teased him for this trait of his, calling it his Alpha voice which other members of their pack were powerless to resist.

  He reached a hand to the door, opened it a crack, and stepped back. No shots came, so he slowly entered. The contrast between the bright light of the afternoon sun and the dark, dingy interior of a ready room with little natural light took him a second to adjust to. He made out four, five faces in the shadows all looking at him in fear.

  “Stand down,” he told them, lowering his rifle barrel to point toward the dirty carpet and standing straight, “we’re here to help.”

  Slowly, nervously, four men and a woman appeared from behind cover. Cover was a relative term, seeing as how ducking down behind a sofa was all well and good for a game of hide and seek, but about as effective as covering your eyes if you were expecting incoming bullets.

  The base, as far as US military bases went, was small. He didn’t have the luxury of time to explain the A to Z of their current predicament, so he cut right to the point.

  “Any other personnel on base?” he asked, as Bones and Ghost joined him after leaving Valdez and Farrell to set up a hurried defense outside. Heads shook.

  “Any of you rated as pilots?” again, heads shook. “Aircrew? Maintenance?” Heads nodded in response to the last word.
Not ideal, but not insurmountable.

  “What aircraft are on station?” he asked, mindful not to snap and scare the wide-eyed support staff who looked at him as though a god of war had just appeared before them, even though that wasn’t an entirely inaccurate description.

  “Twin Hueys,” said what appeared to be the oldest man there, who still seemed younger than Troy’s thirty-six years, “primarily configured for transport and SAR.”

  “Good,” Troy said, “ready to fly?”

  Nods, albeit confused ones, replied to his question.

  “Okay, load up personal gear and maintenance tools for immediate dust off,” he said, walking back out of the room and hitting the transmit button on his radio as he looked at the nearest Black Hawk thirty paces away. The face in the right-side seat watched him.

  “Pilots,” he said, “any of you familiar with a Huey?” No answer came back, as all six of the pilots listening in either exchanged glances or rolled their eyes. There wasn’t a helicopter jock in the entire US forces who couldn’t pilot a Huey.

  “Captain,” came a female voice, “most Huey’s are older than us. Yes, we all know how to fly them.”

  Feeling a little like an idiot, he watched the face of the pilot who had spoken shake slowly at the idiocy of his question. In that moment, he knew it was Gina Pilloni; their team’s war-virgin, and he had handed her a tiny slither of authority over him by demonstrating a minor lack of knowledge. It wasn’t so much that he minded looking like an idiot, but it was the fact that he had thought the question was a relevant one. Then again, he imagined the look he would give Gina if she asked him if he was rated to use an AK47 instead of his customary SCAR.

  Yeah, okay, he thought, dumb question.

  “Good,” he said, recovering, “co-pilots on me to fly two more birds.” He walked back inside to find that Bones and Ghost had encouraged the remaining crew to move their asses. As the three operators helped the five ground crews collect their gear and tools as well as prepare the two light gray Huey helicopters for immediate departure, they learned that most of the base personnel was comprised of auxiliary soldiers. When the bombs started falling, many had simply evaporated to their homes, but the brass had taken off without letting anyone else know where they were going. History was irrelevant to Troy, and he half expected to be warned of incoming aircraft at any moment to bomb this base as so many others had been hit. Gina and the other co-pilot, Nick Jenkins, hurried though pre-flight checks and sparked their engines to life. Troy hit the transmit button again.