by J. J. Holden
Ethan’s voice crackled, coming through garbled. Then he repeated himself. “Maybe they’re a last-ditch thing. They aren’t exactly making anymore jet fuel, you know. Nor jets, for that matter.”
Carl nodded. His thought exactly. “They blew their wad trying to break through here, and we’ve managed to grind them to a halt even though it was touch and go for a while. We got real lucky, yeah? So maybe now would be the time for any last-ditch efforts.”
There was a pause. After about fifteen seconds, the radio crackled to life again. “Copy that. It’s possible. We can’t check, though. We won’t know until they’re shoving Hellfire missiles up our butts.”
“Can’t you check your little birdies?”
The reply was immediate. “Negative. We get one chance at that. The one bird that could tell us is unfriendly. We can’t connect twice.”
So. If Ethan hacked a satellite, they’d see it and take steps to deny it to him. He would have only a short window to work in. But what good was it to have a connection to a satellite, then? Damned if he used it, damned if he didn’t. Crap. “Copy that. Put your thinking hat on and figure out a way to at least find out if we’re about to get hit from the air.”
“Um… Ten-four, Carl. You too, eh? Meanwhile, an aerial recon report just in. The Mountain is shifting troops to strengthen Army Group North. You may want to keep up with that.”
Carl thanked Ethan and terminated comms. He turned to his staff and barked orders to strengthen the bridgehead’s north perimeter. That situation, unlike his worries about airplanes, was real and immediate. He’d worry about hypothetical air strikes later.
* * *
0700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +416
Nestor grabbed the prisoner by the scruff of the neck, his fingers turning white from the force of his grip, and shoved him face down into the dirt. Nestor felt the urge to wash his hand where he had touched the bastard. The Mountain soldier looked to be maybe twenty years old, but he was clean shaven, his hair trimmed, and he had some actual fat on him. Lazy, overprivileged pig… And he was pale. No one was pale these days, and it marked the man more clearly than any uniform could.
Nestor imagined himself slicing the man’s throat open. His voice tight from the effort of controlling himself, he said, “You will operate this fucking radio, or Ratbone here will skin you alive.”
The soldier, who wore sergeant stripes, spat blood from his torn lip and climbed to his hands and knees. “You’ll kill me anyway,” he said, voice cracking.
Nestor reviled the panic in the man’s voice, but killing him wouldn’t accomplish the goal. “To the contrary. I don’t give a fuck about you. If you cooperate, we’ll take your weapons but not your life. I’ll give you three MREs and send you on your way. That’s my promise, and it’s the best deal you’re going to get. After that, it’ll be Ratbone making the offers, and he’s a sick fuck…so choose wisely.”
Nestor stared into the man’s eyes, unwavering. He had meant it when he said Ratbone would be the next to question the prisoner, but intellectually, he preferred getting his way more quickly.
The sergeant stared back for five seconds, then blinked and looked away. A tear formed at the corner of his eye. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Good,” Nestor said. Smart guy. This particular message he was trying to get out was important enough to spare a prisoner’s life if it would help him send it where it needed to go. “Turn on the radio in that Stryker and tune into the non-military bands. Show me how to change the frequency, and I’ll do the rest.”
The sergeant nodded, and Nestor led him back into the cramped interior of the immobilized Stryker. He watched as the sergeant turned on first one system, then another. The radio’s faceplate lit up with a bunch of function symbols he didn’t understand. The sergeant said, “Now what?”
“Civilian bands. Show me how to change frequencies.”
The man pressed a few buttons. Nothing came out of the speakers, but he said, “Alright. This pad lets you type in a direct frequency, while these two buttons shift frequency up and down manually. This other button will encrypt your transmission, but unless the other end has the same gear, they won’t be able to decrypt it.”
Nestor nodded and had the sergeant removed, leaving him alone inside the Stryker. From the inside, the damn thing looked cramped as hell, and stuffed with technology. It didn’t have the menacing, deadly appearance it did on the outside.
He pressed a series of numbers. A second later, static came through, then broken voices. “Fall back… the wall… before the bastards…”
Nestor thought it sounded like Ethan’s voice. He pressed the up and down buttons a few times until he found the exact channel, removing the static, then put on the headphones. Into the microphone, he said, “Night Ghost One Actual to Charlie Two Actual. Come in.”
There was a short pause before the reply came through. “Charlie Two here.”
“Charlie Two, listen up,” Nestor replied. “Whatever you’re doing out there pissed Houle off enough to send in the big dogs. We observed about a dozen jet fighters heading east, going your way.”
“Shit. Really? What’s your location and what was their bearing?”
“My twenty is western Pennsylvania, and they were flying east, high up. That’s all I know. Where else would they be going, though?”
“Copy that. Thanks.”
“Ten-four. Let us know if you need anything.”
“Copy that. Night Ghost One out.” Nestor clicked the radio off. He had lost half a dozen men and women during the ambush that secured this Stryker, but there had been no time to play it safe. The Confederation, and especially the Clan, had to know what was coming their way. One pass from a dozen fighters could possibly shatter their forces.
He climbed out of the Stryker and looked around. “Give the sergeant three MREs and some water, then set him loose. Ratbone, get a couple sticks of dynamite so we can make sure they don’t salvage this beast. Toss the corpses inside, too.”
Ratbone mounted a horse and headed south, toward their encampment and supplies, and Nestor watched the crazy little monster ride away. He hoped his warning had come in time.
* * *
0700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +416
Cassy stood in the HQ pavilion with Michael, who was examining the map on the table and comparing it to a digital one Ethan had sent via HAMnet. The two chatted back and forth on the radio, updating each other on new developments. It was vital at this point because the Mountain King had finally sent in real aircraft, according to Ethan.
To Carl, she said, “I guess we put up a stiffer fight than they’d imagined.”
Carl grinned at her. He was shifting from foot to foot, but Cassy understood his anxiety. When were those damn planes going to hit? She almost just wanted to get it over with. He said, “With Michael and Ethan now moving our units around like this, I’m hoping we take minimal damage. But if they bring in bombers, we’re screwed.”
“Don’t fighters have bombs?” Cassy raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, little ones. And missiles. But they’re a scalpel, used to hit specific targets. Bombers, well, they’re like Gallagher, spraying watermelon everywhere.”
“So where are those planes?”
A moment later, her question was answered when the mobile air raid siren they had rigged to a wagon, taken from the Clanholme watchtower, began its low and lonely wail. The sound quickly grew louder by the second until it had become a terrible scream that echoed all across Harrisburg.
Michael shouted at Cassy and Carl over the din, “Take cover, dammit.” He turned back to the table and began alerting the larger units’ commanders about the threat.
Cassy grabbed Carl’s shirt sleeve. “Come on, man! The Army will push hard at us as soon as those planes strike.”
Carl nodded and followed her. They darted out of the tent and raced toward the wall, two blocks away. When they were halfway there, Cassy saw the jets in the distance. They were coming in fast, and seemed to grow large
r just in the time it took her to glance. Smoke streaked away from them, leading toward the wall, seeming to spreading farther apart as they approached. She guessed there were about twelve smoke trails, though she didn’t count them. That was consistent with what Nestor had said. Thank God for Nestor’s alert or they’d have been caught with their pants down. Even with the alert, she knew, they’d suffer under those planes but at least they had been able to spread out and take cover.
To either end of the bridge, massive fireballs rose and the shockwave was deafening. Cassy felt like she had been struck with a huge hammer, but she kept to her feet despite staggering. Ahead, she saw that the wall had been blown out like it had been thin as paper. Any enemy troops who crossed the bridge wouldn’t be funneled through the narrow gate that had once been there. No more choke point…
Not all the missiles struck the wall, though. Half had actually peppered the area behind the wall, striking buildings that now burned even as their rubble and shrapnel still rained down over a huge area. But the jets weren’t done; they came in low, strafing the Confed positions. She saw one house collapse in on itself under the strafing.
Once the planes were over the city’s edge, they veered sharply and hit their afterburners, screaming off in the same direction from which they had come, and she knew they’d be back in minutes. As she ran, she looked to the horizon and saw two more groups of planes, though at this range they were merely dots on the horizon. Little puffs of smoke announced more missiles incoming.
Cassy stopped and snatched Carl by his jacket to halt him. “More missiles,” she shouted, then moved toward a culvert. If those missiles struck farther into the city than the last wave, she and Carl were at risk themselves. “Take cover.”
Carl nodded, and glanced around. He saw the culvert, used to divert overflow rainwater. It was only a few feet deep, but he didn’t hesitate to follow her as she dove in. They lay face down in the ditch, soaking up a light trickle of cold water that flowed through it.
She pulled out her radio and clicked it on. “Charlie One Actual to Charlie Two,” she shouted.
“Mike One Actual, go for Charlie Two.” It was Michael’s voice.
Cassy cursed herself for a fool. Of course her little handheld wouldn’t reach all the way to Clanholme. But Michael’s radio would. “A dozen jets just hit the wall. Two more groups on the horizon, missiles incoming,” she blurted, the words racing out.
“Affirmative. Expect more. Take cover, Charlie One Actual. It’s time for Omega. Mike One out.”
Cassy’s mind spun trying to recall what Omega was. She’d heard it, she had been briefed, but she was in a near-panic and the words weren’t coming to her. “Shit.”
Carl looked at her from his prone position. “Cover your head with your arms,” he said, his voice calm and firm.
Cassy found herself reflexively following his instructions, and she was actually glad to have someone give her a specific action to take. She covered her head with her arms and began counting seconds in her mind. When she got to three, there were more explosions all around her, louder, shaking the ground itself like an earthquake. A jet streaked overhead, and she heard its guns chewing up buildings, dirt, derelict cars and anything else in its path.
“Shit,” she cried out reflexively, and curled into a ball. After a moment, she looked up and saw Carl doing the same. They sat up together and looked around. The neighborhood burned, like a scene from one of those war reports back in the day, or like something out of a World War II video. There was no way Harrisburg could withstand this assault for long.
* * *
Ethan finished with Michael and, on the heels of new reports coming in about jets and missiles, he looked at Amber. She had been furiously scribbling notes as he talked to various field commanders, and now looked at him expectantly. He said, “This is it, isn’t it? They couldn’t crack us, so they’re going to vaporize us.”
Amber stared him in the eyes. “Dammit. I heard what Michael said about it being time for Omega. What are you waiting for?”
“It’ll cripple them, but it’ll cripple us too. And not just us, but almost everyone who has made any progress rebuilding. Can I do that again? Even if not doing it costs us our freedom, or even our lives?”
Amber’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is Omega?”
Ethan saw her eyes ablaze, her brow furrowed, lips pursed, jaw clenched…
“Now Ethan.” She was pumping adrenaline and ready to pounce on him if he dicked around with the fate of the Clan.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to get rid of some tension. He eyed her nervously, then said, “Omega is the last resort. The final option. I launch a ballistic missile into high orbit and detonate it there. It does no real nuclear damage, but the EMP covers however much territory I decide it must, based on altitude. Any EMP wide enough to take out all of Houle’s assets not hidden inside NORAD. It will also take out everything we’ve built with the radios and the Raspberry Pi modules and so on.”
Amber listened carefully throughout his explanation, and her eyes never left his. He could almost feel her boring into his skull to ferret out the truth behind his words. She was silent for a dozen heartbeats before she replied. “Did you have something to do with the first EMPs? Goddammit, Ethan, you tell me the truth right now, or so help me—”
“Whoa,” Ethan said and held up his hands, cutting her off. “No. Those were launched by our enemies, as far as I know. I had nothing to do with with it in any way that I’m aware of.”
Amber’s face was flushed, and Ethan noticed a sheen to her forehead. Sweat. She was livid, he could plainly see.
“If you launch another EMP, what happens to the tanks and planes out there?” Her voice was abruptly monotone and emotionless. Or rather, he decided, overly full of emotion and only barely under self-control.
“They die. Cannons and guns still work, but without the ability to move or aim, they do little good. The planes stop flying and start falling.”
“And our own artillery?”
“Dead too, although with time we can replace the control modules with fresh ones from the depot. They’re stored in mylar bags inside metal crates that act as Faraday cages.”
Amber nodded curtly. “Then what… What the fuck are you waiting for, Ethan? Do it.”
He frowned. He felt his pulse begin to race at the thought of doing it. Again. Flashes of dreams came flitting through his mind, the nightmares he’d had after sentencing the rest of the world to die as they had done to America. He opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of what to say. How could he do this again? But how could he not?
He took another deep breath and felt shivers down his spine. His scalp tingled, as did his cheeks. Hyperventilating and adrenaline crash, he realized. “Very well. I don’t know for sure that I can do it, but let’s find out.”
It was time to put on Dark Ryder’s finest performance.
* * *
Cassy and Carl darted from building to building, using the still-standing ones for cover. Once, they had to run between two burning homes to escape a cul-de-sac of flames. Her ponytail was terribly singed, while Carl lost half an eyebrow. Both had minor burns on their faces and hands.
But they had made it out alive, and now ran through the brisk morning air toward the wall. The wind felt good on her burns. “Left or right?” she asked as the street ended in a “T” intersection.
“Left, then right,” Carl panted. “Then straight on.”
She ignored the burning in her thighs and lungs, and put her head down to run faster. She made the second turn, then the street did indeed run all the way to the wall. It loomed ahead larger and larger as she ran. They got to the end and Carl broke right, so she followed him wordlessly. After a couple of minutes, they came to an area where a missile had blown out the wall.
The rat-tat-tat of a jet fighter’s guns sounded, tearing large chunks of asphalt up about twenty feet ahead of them. Cassy didn’t slow down, just stepped around the ho
les. Two Confed fighters stepped out from behind the burning carcass of a minivan, their weapons aimed at the two of them, but one recognized Carl immediately.
“Alpha! Thank God you’re alive. You saw the planes? We’re getting hit hard on the bridgehead.” The two men lowered their weapons.
Cassy nodded and looked at Carl. “Go, get up there. And try not to get a missile up your tailpipe.” She waved him toward the wall furiously.
Carl took one step, then stopped. He looked at Cassy and said, “Will you be okay? What will you do?”
“Don’t worry about me, dammit. Get your ass moving. I’ll see you when we win, Carl.”
He nodded and sprinted away, followed by the two Liz Town fighters, leaving Cassy standing alone in the roadway.
She turned right, moving away from the wall as she ran toward Michael’s HQ. She wound her way between the burning buildings scattered throughout the neighborhood, giving the flames as wide a berth as possible. When she arrived at the HQ, people were running in and out of the pavilion tent. She waited until there was a clear moment to duck in. It was dark in the tent, but with the sun’s ambient light, she had no problem spotting Michael. She stepped aside to clear the doorway and called to him, while her eyes adjusted to the lower light.
Michael looked up, and when he saw her, he looked relieved. “You made it. Good,” he said, and set his radio down long enough to step up to Cassy and hug her. “I feared the air strikes got you. You smell like Aunt Margo’s cooking, though.”
“Ran through a fire,” she said. “Nothing that won’t grow back.”
Michael said, “We’re getting pushed back. We’ve lost the bridge, and we’re losing the bridgehead on this side. With no more wall there, once they clear a path those M1s are going to barrel across the bridge and shatter our line. Then we’ll probably be evacuating the HQ to go to a fallback being set up right—”
The back half of the pavilion seemed to disintegrate. The two officers on that end of the map table and half of the table itself exploded into pink mist and shrapnel. Cassy felt a sliver of something slice the side of her neck. She put her hand to her neck, stunned, and then pulled it away, only to find it red with blood. It didn’t look like enough to worry about at the moment. Her mind raced to make sense of it all, until she heard the whine of jet engines pass overhead. They had been strafed.