Fortress Farm Trilogy: Volumes 1, 2 & 3 (Fortress Farm Series)

by G. R. Carter

  Fortress Farm Series

  Agriculture is our wisest pursuit, because it will in the end contribute most to real wealth, good morals, and happiness. Thomas Jefferson

  Chapter One – Red Hawk Rising

  East Central Illinois

  Border of Red Hawk Republic and New American Empire

  Seven Years after the Great Reset

  Decaying oak floor boards creaked with the pressure of two, now three sets of boots. Dust unmoved by human presence for years stirred in little whirlwinds, and then settled back behind cautious figures in gray camouflage. They crept slowly a few feet away from each other, sensing they were not alone in the old warehouse.

  Martin Fredericks crouched in the nearly pitch black basement below, trying to keep his breathing measured and his heartbeat steady. The stench of the space tested his resolve, a toxic mix of waste and decay that agitated like a witch’s brew in his nose. He stifled a sneeze and tried not to imagine who or what might have been down here since the Great Reset. Hiding places like this were valued by anything avoiding civilization. The primal fear of the dark present in every man tried to break Frederick’s spirit, make him take his chances with what was upstairs. Years of training strained against his emotions. He had to provide an example to the men with him; all were blocked from escaping by the single set of rickety stairs that led up to the surface. Frederick’s personal Guardian dogs, Drucken and Falke, also sat waiting by his side. Their keen ears had first detected the danger of approaching vehicles, allowing those in their care a few precious moments to hide. Both specially-bred animals sat statue-still, each of them one hundred and fifty pounds of tightly-wound muscle completely focused on the strangers' sounds and awaiting for their master’s orders.

  Fredericks, along with adjuncts Eric Olsen and Davie Enoch, wound up accidentally separated from their armored survey team. This was no man’s land, an area completely devoid of civilized people or cultivated fields, controlled by neither the Red Hawk Republic nor New America. But that didn’t mean the two sides wouldn’t kill each other for being here. Fredericks tried not to think about the circumstances, instead working to maintain the sharp focus he taught all the junior officers he trained. Leading from the front was his style, even after the Founder of the Republic gave him command of the entire Self Defense Force. That’s why he was here today, to show younger officers such as Olsen and Enoch what to look for when picking defensive locations.

  The squat warehouse they sought cover in ran parallel to a towering concrete grain elevator, just the sort that Red Hawk Republic engineers liked to convert into Fortress Farms. Establishing a stronghold here would help secure surrounding territory and provide one more thorn in the side of their hated rivals. Bad luck brought the Americans here at the same time, luck that was compounded by an error in security procedures. Now he prayed for a chance to never make the same mistake again.

  Fredericks heard his younger subordinates breathing heavily. There was no concern about Olsen holding his own; the young man had proved himself in tight spots like this several times since the Great Reset shut off electricity to the world and created a literal Dark Age. Savage struggles for resources and their very survival had left the men and women of the SDF hardened, and now they fought with the righteous fury of unquestioning belief in their cause.

  Davie Enoch was a different matter. He was a militia man from a Red Hawk ally, Little Egypt. The country nestled between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers, in the area where the Shawnee forest dominated the landscape, struggled to survive. They were rich in natural resources but plagued by Ditchmen savages who took shelter in the thousands of square miles of heavily wooded badlands. Enoch was participating in an exchange program with the Red Hawks, trying to bring more unit integration to the two allied nations. People from Little Egypt – “Buckles” most called them – longed for a society as well organized and cohesive as the Red Hawks. But so far they didn’t seem to understand that the greatest strength of Republic wasn’t the system, but the people.

  Fredericks listened to the three New American Legionnaires up above him talking, apparently trying to decide if they could get by without going down into the basement. Legionnaires, who Red Hawks called “Grays”, were excellent soldiers; almost all of their officers had been in the old United States armed forces before the Reset. Even so, the fact that these three were sent to search this building probably meant they were rookies or replacement soldiers, fresh off some small-town farm in a distant corner of the New American Empire.

  Murmurs up above escalated to shouts, until the argument ended in something sounding like a direct order. Shortly after, Fredericks heard the old wooden door at the top of the stairs moan as it opened slowly. Just a few rays of sun slipped in through a ventilation vent at ground level. A flashlight beam poked out to the bottom of the stairs, sliding silently back and forth on the floor, and then up and down the walls on each side.

  Finally a boot appeared, testing the first plank, then the second. Gaining confidence, the Gray stepped onto the third, which gave way with the weight applied. Fredericks had loosened the board, hoping to discourage anyone who might decide to investigate the basement. It was a good plan, but didn’t account for the young Gray’s lack of balance, which sent him tumbling down head first until he landed with a thud on the dirty concrete below.

  “Crap, now what?” Fredericks muttered to himself while watching the shadowy outline of the man writhe slowly on the ground, semiconscious from the fall.

  Falke let out a low growl, the dog’s training nearly overcome by his hatred of anyone not deemed friendly by his handlers. The Gray stopped moving, and Fredericks took a moment to consider what to do next. The wounded Gray’s comrades were already calling down to him. A medic crew would be coming down any moment, and would probably bring spotlights to determine how badly hurt the fallen man was.

  A beam of light appeared from the bottom of the stairs, shining right into the face of the Red Hawk crew. “Ditchmen!” the injured man cried, terrified he’d be eaten alive right there where he lay. His sense of danger was well founded as Fredericks pointed and gave the Guardians their order for attack: “Angriff!” With a single word they leapt at the prone man in the process of drawing his sidearm. Viscous growls and muffled screams came from the shadows, and then went silent, while the unguided flashlight dropped to the ground and rolled to a stop.

  Before Fredericks could call them back, the two canine warriors bounded up the stairs. More screams and swears came from the fallen Gray’s companions, shocked at the sight of snarling fangs coming up the stairs from the dark space below. The three Red Hawk comrades scrambled to follow, knowing that the fight was now on whether they were ready or not. All Fredericks could hope for was that the Gray force outside was small enough to be held off until relief could arrive.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he looked over to see both Falke and Drucken with a Gray pinned to the floor, each man dead from wounds to the neck. “Free!” Fredericks shouted and the two Guardians released their victim. Immediately they returned to Frederick’s side, whimpering for their master’s attention.

  There was no time now. He crouch-walked up to a window to get a glimpse of the threat outside, listening as a voice shouted for a report from the three-man team inside. Fredericks didn’t have to watch to know what would happen next. After receiving no response, a much larger assault team would storm through this time, and they wouldn’t fall for the loose board trick.

  “Eric, get upstairs to the loft. When I fire, you spray that column out there, then get back away from the window. There’s a ladder right there you can use,” Fredericks said as he pointed several yards down the corridor where they stood. There was daylight on this level, at least enough for Eric to see what Fredericks wanted him to do. A quick nod and the young man strode gracefully to the spot, then up the ladder with ease.

  “All right, Davie, you and I are going to try and make them think they’ve got a whole squad of Red Hawks in here, not just
three of us, okay?” The young man's eyes darted about the room, and Fredericks had to grab the Buckle’s arm to capture his attention. “Lieutenant, are you hearing me?”

  Enoch looked over at him and gave a halfhearted nod.

  “Look son, these walls are brick. They’ll stop most bullets,” Fredericks said, not entirely sure he was telling the truth. “I need you to go there into that office, and fire your weapon out the window when I give the signal. Try to hit something, but don’t stand in front of the opening too long, okay? Go now, we’ve trained for this,” the Red Hawk commander said as he gave the young man a shove.

  He turned to his dogs, “Drucken, Falke, platz!” he commanded, and the two Guardians went to the spot he pointed to and lay down, whimpering. They instinctively knew there was a fight brewing; they could sense it in their master’s tone and actions. They just weren’t sure why they were being kept from the fun.

  With his little unit settled into place, Fredericks turned his attention back to the doorway in front of him. He pulled the two dead Gray soldiers to a place where he could set them up back to back, about twenty yards from the door’s threshold. He did the best he could to put their hands behind their backs, as though tied up. As he positioned them, he noticed a ribbon tied to one of the dead men’s cuffs. Pink and white striped, the ribbon was definitely not standard issue uniform. The young man’s face caught Frederick’s attention, and he briefly thought of him not as an enemy soldier, but as a human being. This was someone’s son, boyfriend, brother…

  Frederick’s felt the time slipping out of the hourglass in his mind. He knew at any moment the Grays would burst through the entrance ahead.

  “We’ve got your men held prisoner in here!” Fredericks shouted. “They’re secure, but don’t try to come in or we’ll end all three of them!”

  After a moment, a voice finally responded, sounding as though they were right outside the door. “What do you want?”

  “We want you to leave! If you leave, we’ll leave. Once we’re gone an hour, you can come back and get your men. They’ll still be here tied up,” Fredericks responded.

  “I want to talk to one of them,” the Gray demanded. “Otherwise for all I know you already killed them.”

  “Not a chance, I know your tricks. He’ll shout unit strength and positions, it’s what you’re trained to do.” Which was actually true, it was trick that Fredericks himself once trained American soldiers to use. He assumed it was being taught to New America’s Legionnaires to this day.

  Silence hung in the air, and Fredericks started to get worried. This was a longshot anyway, but the ruse was the best card he had to play in an impossible situation. He could hear rustling outside, turning his back just in time to protect his face from the dust of the doors being blown open.

  Before he could shout a command, Eric was already unloading his rifle from the position just above. He watched in slow motion as two Grays burst through the doorway, and then both paused when they saw their comrades sitting in the middle of the floor in front of them.

  Their hesitation gave Fredericks the split second opportunity he needed. He put a three-round burst into each man, and then emptied his entire magazine into the open doorway, still obscured by the dust of the explosion. “Davie, now!” he shouted as he reached down for a fresh magazine, dropping to his back to remain as low as possible. Drucken and Falke both crawled to his side, worried about seeing their master on his back.

  “Lieutenant Enoch, I said fire now!” Fredericks screamed, until finally the room burst with noise again. He heard the rounds leaving the weapon until it clicked empty. Fredericks spun off his back and crouched again, weapon shouldered and ready for an actual target this time. None came, and a brief relief was replaced by panic. The Gray commander had already made his decision. Figuring none of his men were left alive in the building, the Gray commander had no reason to leave it standing.

  “Eric, come on down! They’re going to burn us out!” Fredericks shouted up above. In an instant, Eric was back down on the main level, crouching in an office entryway and checking his weapon.

  “Enoch, come to my position, now!” Fredericks commanded.

  Silence hung in the air for a moment then he heard a panicked Enoch: “We give up, we give up!” the man shouted out the window.

  “Who’s we?” the voice outside asked.

  “Promise not to shoot, I’ll come out right now and tell you,” Enoch shouted back.

  “Lieutenant, if you don’t sit your butt back down, I’ll shoot you myself,” Olsen growled.

  Fredericks agreed with that thought at first, then shook his head. He whispered to Eric: “We might be able to use this. Let’s go to the end of the hallway, see if there’s an unblocked exit. Be careful, we have to assume they’ve got someone watching that door, too. But there might only be a few.”

  “What’s going to happen to Enoch?” Olsen asked. Leaving people behind went contrary to everything Fredericks taught him. Olsen had never seen anything like this out of the man he so admired.

  “Would you have surrendered like that, or would you have fought to the end?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Olsen replied.

  “I know, that’s why we’ll worry about Enoch later,” Fredericks replied with an ice cold tone.

  *****

  “Then, just when we thought we were toast, in comes Dad with his three Turtles ripping down the road and hits the Americans right where they aren’t looking! Man, I wish I could have seen the look on those Grays' faces when their tin can Humvees started popping one by one!”

  Eric Olsen had told this same story about the same skirmish no less than a hundred times now, but the crowds never seemed to tire of a good war tale, especially when the good guys won every time it was told. Founder Alex Hamilton and Sheriff Clark Olsen merely stood and smiled as the sheriff's good-natured and well-liked son would exaggerate a story that really wasn’t that big of a deal. The leaders didn’t object, they knew their citizens had to believe the Red Hawk Republic’s Self Defense Force could handle any threat. Stories like these helped to bolster that confidence.

  “Lieutenant Commander Olsen, do you suppose we could get moving down to the city gates now?” Alex said to his friend. “I believe we have a dedication to make, and an award to honor your father with.”

  Eric flashed his big smile and laughed. “Of course, I just wanted to make sure these folks all knew they were in the presence of a hero.”

  “Not a hero, son,” Sheriff Olsen finally spoke up. “Just a man doing his job. It’s what all of us have done many times.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Sheriff,” Alex said. “You saved lives attacking a force four times the size of yours, and didn’t suffer a single loss of life.”

  “That’s a little rich on the story telling, and you know it. Fredericks and Eric had the situation handled fine,” Olsen said. “You only talked me into this dog and pony show as a way to have a celebration, improve morale and all that nonsense.”

  “Clark, you know damn well this isn't nonsense. Confidence hangs by a thread, even now. People are still scared of things that go bump in the night. Ditchmen or Grays, doesn’t matter. Knowing that a handful of SDF men can defeat a much larger group of Grays gives folks the courage to go out and farm the fields. We need them to believe in us,” Alex said.

  Clark simply nodded, knowing Alex was right but wishing he personally didn’t have to be the one to become a Hero of the Republic.

  The trio made the walk down to the city gates of the Red Hawk Republic’s as-yet unnamed capital city. What had once been a sleepy little county seat in the middle of farm country was now the thriving hub of a new nation. Just seven years had passed since the computers that ran the world shut off and plunged the world into chaos. Only one in ten in the outside world would survive the horror of no food or heat and only limited fresh water. Through quick action on the part of a handful of community leaders and the resourcefulness of area farmers, this little town survived
long enough to become a beacon of hope to those still alive.

  Today, one of those community leaders would receive the first-ever Hero of the Republic award, presented to him by the Founder of the Republic. “Founder” became an honorary title after the actual founder, the late Phil Hamilton, sacrificed himself in a battle with the Republic’s most hated enemy, New America. His son Alex took the helm and formed the little collection of farms and villages into the core of a burgeoning empire. A strategic, though heartfelt, marriage to their biggest ally at Old Main doubled the size and strength of the young republic, and a close relationship with another new nation arising from the city center of old St. Louis helped keep their people safe. For now, anyway.

  Ever present danger of failed harvests and Ditchmen raids were topped only by the dictator in New America. Ever since the surprise attack that claimed his father’s life, Alex had devoted himself to strengthening the northern border defenses of the Republic. Mostly, that was done by building up Fortress Farms all throughout their lands. Originally, those had been built around the towering grain elevators that rose up from the prairie. Now, existing structures in the heartland of the Republic were all spoken for, and new farms sprouted with purpose-built concrete and steel fortresses as their hubs. It was while scouting the location of one of those new farms in the disputed area between New America and the Republic where the skirmish that Eric Olsen described had taken place.

  “So how many Grays were actually there, anyway?” a lovely young Red Hawk citizen asked Sheriff Olsen as he walked along the brick streets.

  “Not as many as my son remembers. Maybe twenty,” Olsen replied, blushing just a little at the female attention.

  “Nah, it was fifty, pops. You should have seen him, ma’am. Like something out of an old Hollywood movie!” Eric was still in full promotion mode, enjoying the playful embarrassment he caused his father.