by Joe Nobody
American consumerism or the lack thereof was pulling the world into an economic depression unlike anything civilization had witnessed before. People were staying home, frightened, paranoid, or simply glued to their televisions, watching the disaster unfold. A desperate act was needed to right the ship. The president ordered all communication from within the quarantined city be terminated. Phone lines were cut, cell service disabled, television and radio signals were jammed with military hardware.
Havoc continued to rumble down the pavement, each tenth of a mile bringing another military unit into view. Most were Abrams tanks, with the occasional Stryker holding a position along the picket line. Command favored the armored vehicles because of their CBRN (chemical, biological, radiation, and nuclear) protection systems. Basically, each wheeled or tracked unit was an air-tight, positive pressure haven that couldn’t be penetrated by nasty viruses.
Both the Stryker and Abrams were equipped with sophisticated sensors as well. Night vision, thermal imaging, satellite communications, and a host of other high-tech gadgets made them the near-perfect guardians of the wall.
For tonight, Havoc’s assigned position was at the pinnacle of the Exit 4 overpass. Captain Norse had spent many nights stationed on what was essentially a bridge passing over a two-lane surface road. The elevated vantage and clear fields of fire provided an excellent guard tower.
As Havoc approached the flyover, Norse lowered himself into the turret and sealed the system. There wasn’t any perceived danger; his action was merely standard procedure. The crew didn’t comment as their ears popped, assured that the over-pressure air filtration system had engaged.
Tonight’s duty-shift involved relieving the number five unit, “‘Bama Thunder.” Norse keyed his radio, “Five, this is Six, on station.”
“Ev’ning, Captain. Glad to see you,” came the response from Thunder’s commander.
Norse conjured up an image of Lieutenant Thompson’s toothy grin, the toe-headed southerner a former University of Alabama football player and his second-in-command.
“Any unusual activity to report, LT?” Norse asked.
“We had some odd thermal movement a few hours ago,” sounded the speaker. “But it was at extreme range. Other than that, just a typical afternoon on the wall, sir.”
“Copy that, Five. You’re relieved. Roll Tide!”
A warm chuckle came over the airwaves, Thunder’s commander obviously appreciating the reference to his college Alma mater. “Thank you, sir. Be safe.”
Havoc’s driver, Specialist Jones, pivoted the tracks perfectly, pulling the 70-ton machine into the appropriate overlook position at the edge of the bridge. The crew waited patiently until Thunder had rolled off and then began their sweep of the surrounding landscape using both thermal and light amplification sensors. After three minutes, Specialist Crenshaw made the announcement everyone was waiting for. “All clear on the perimeter, sir.”
“Unseal the tank,” Norse ordered.
Another round of popping ears, and then the driver’s and gunner’s hatches were opened, allowing somewhat fresh, almost-cool air to begin circulating inside the stagnant interior. Norse quickly added to the effect, pushing open the heavy commander’s opening at the top of the turret. It wasn’t much relief.
Despite the late hour, it was still over 90 degrees outside, the low afternoon sun continuing to pour heat on the tank’s metal skin. While it was against procedure to exit the vehicle while on station, the captain also thought it was a violation of protocol to bake his crew inside the oven-like interior. He made up his mind to periodically climb outside throughout the night and allow one of the crew to enjoy some cooler air via the hatch. The Skinnies haven’t been active in weeks, he thought, justifying the decision. There’s no way they could sneak up on us.
The moon was high in the clear sky when Norse glanced at his watch. The constant monitoring of the surrounding terrain had become lackluster, mundane work. In the early days of the blockade, it wasn’t unusual for the local residents to make three or four attempts at crossing the wall per shift. Each attempted breach was given one warning via a loudspeaker, and if that verbal order was ignored, lethal force was used. Havoc was equipped with three machine guns that had been fired upon civilians.
Evidently, word had gotten around. Over time, fewer and fewer attempts were made to escape Houston. Speculation ran rampant regarding the reasons for the decline in activity, some of the captain’s cohorts believing most of the population within the barrier were dead, others assuming that people had simply realized the futility of attempting to violate the quarantine.
Recently, reports had come in from the wall’s other sectors that warned of sophisticated, almost coordinated activity by the incarcerated population. The colonel’s last brief included one such recounting, an effort near the Katy zone that had involved a diversion along with simultaneous probes at three separate points. “They’re getting creative,” the senior officer had declared. “They’re showing some level of command and control and upping their game. This isn’t a positive development as their clever resurgence occurs concurrently with the declining vigilance within our ranks. We need all officers and enlisted personnel at the highest levels of alertness. It only takes one contagious escapee making his way to Austin or Dallas to release the genie from the bottle.”
As Norse and his fellow officers exited the briefing, he overheard a senior NCO question, “What the hell does anyone expect? Those are Americans inside the wall, not some bunch of uneducated, third-world tribesmen. There are retired military leaders, police captains, college professors, and business executives – all desperately seeking their freedom. In a way, I’m surprised they haven’t kicked our asses by now.”
But the Tomball sector hadn’t witnessed any such activity, and after a few days, the guardians of the wall had fallen back into much the same routine.
Norse looked down into the tank’s “basket,” assessing the men below his position in the turret. Jonesy’s timing was spot-on, the driver wiping the perspiration from his brow. He had switched positions with Havoc’s loader, allowing the other man a few minutes of fresh air via the driver’s hatch. The gunner’s shirt was stained with sweat.
“Sweep 180, and if it’s clear, we can let Crenshaw come up here for a minute,” Norse said.
“Yes, sir,” came the smiling response.
Reaching for the gunner’s periscope, Clark flipped a switch that engaged Havoc’s FLIR, or “forward looking infrared,” sighting system. Originally designed to spot enemy armor, it detected the bands of energy generated by heat instead of light. Human bodies emitted a lot of heat.
“Nothing, sir. Not even a cow,” came the relieved voice.
“Come on up and take a breather, Specialist,” Norse said. “I’m going to stretch my legs on the deck.”
The captain lifted himself out of the hatch, swinging a leg onto the heavy armor plating that coated the tank’s exterior. Standing, Norse experienced a sense of liberation. While being a tanker definitely wasn’t for individuals with claustrophobia, even those who didn’t suffer from that condition gained a new respect for the wide-open spaces. Crenshaw’s head, and then upper body, appeared in the hatch a moment later. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
“I saw some activity on the horizon,” Norse replied, with an official sounding tone. “I deemed it interesting enough that a better vantage, such as the one afforded by standing on the deck, was prudent.”
Both men knew it was bullshit, but not an entirely unbelievable story if someone should question why the captain was outside of his tank. “Of course, sir,” Crenshaw replied.
Norse did indeed raise his binoculars, sweeping the horizon south of Havoc’s station. There was enough starlight and moon to discern vague shapes and shadows, but that was about it.
After 30 minutes, the captain lowered his optic and checked his watch. Grunting at how slow their duty-shift was passing, he decided he’d give the new man another five minutes of fresh air be
fore returning to his normal post.
“Movement,” came Clark’s distant voice, barely audible up on the deck. “I have activity at 178 degrees, source unknown.”
The binoculars came to the captain’s eyes in a rush, his mind calculating the point on the compass where his crewman had spotted activity. He couldn’t see a damn thing.
“Okay, Crenshaw, make a hole,” Norse ordered, moving for the hatch. Snipers were the officer’s primary concern, since some of Houston’s upstanding residents occasionally took potshots at the men manning the wall. Exposed and standing upright on top of the tank, he was a prime target.
As he made for the narrow portal, the irony wasn’t lost on Norse. All of a sudden, the open spaces and fresh breeze weren’t so attractive, his body longing for the confines and comfortable surroundings of ceramic armor and steel plates.
He was just lowering his torso into the commander’s hatch when Clark’s voice sounded again. “This is bizarre, sir. Starlight shows something out there is moving… and it’s big. Thermal isn’t showing me anything.”
Given that report, Norse decided to man the .50 caliber machine gun mounted next to his hatch. The unit was equipped with a night vision optic and might provide a better angle.
A few moments later he was swinging the heavy weapon around, his eye seeking the small optic’s green and black view of the world.
It took a bit before he saw what Crenshaw was talking about. There was a slab of some sort, a rectangle of distortion… almost as if someone were pushing a wall or rolling a huge log directly at their position. “What the hell,” he muttered.
“I’ve got a thermal signature,” Clark announced. “No idea what it is. Really weird.”
Norse dropped down to the commander’s station where he could view a small, flat-screen monitor of the FLIR image. He could discern the rectangle, its dark grey hue matching the temperature of most of the surrounding vegetation and soil. Around one edge he could also see the brighter glow of something hotter, yet couldn’t identify the source. “What in God’s name,” he whispered.
Like so many tank commanders, the captain trusted his own eyes and ears as much as any of the technology within his machine. Returning to the open hatch, he tried his binoculars again, this time knowing what he was looking for. It didn’t help clarify the situation at all.
“It’s coming closer, whatever the hell it is,” came Clark’s concerned voice. “Loader – 28,” the gunner continued, ordering Crenshaw to insert an anti-personnel canister round into Havoc’s main gun.
Norse agreed with the move. The M1028 cartridge contained hundreds of steel balls, that when fired, turned Havoc’s huge cannon into an oversized shotgun. The selected round was very effective at stopping people… permanently.
“Up,” shouted the gunner a few seconds later, the response updating everyone that the artillery-like shell was securely in the breech and ready to fire.
“It looks like we have a bunch of people using something as a shield,” Clark continued. “I can see wisps of hot air coming from behind whatever they’re pushing. It looks like an advancing cloud of heavy breathers.”
“Range?” the captain asked.
“Five hundred meters and closing.”
Norse mentally reviewed his options. Technically, he couldn’t fire on the approaching object until it crossed the 100-meter line of demarcation. Standard procedure stated he should issue the verbal warning at 200 meters if intent was demonstrated. The colonel’s recent briefing rushed back into his mind.
“Scan the perimeter,” he ordered. “Let’s make sure we’re not focused on the rabbit while the turtle sneaks past.”
He then switched his radio to the command frequency. “Traffic, this is six, over.”
“Go ahead, six,” came the response.
“Six reporting movement, 178 degrees our position, exit 4 overpass. Activity is unknown in origin. Do we have any birds in the air? Over.”
“Negative on the air cover, six,” sounded the radio operator. “I’ll see if I can divert an asset your way.”
“Roger that, six out,” Norse responded, shaking his head. It seemed like there was never a helicopter or drone around when a tanker needed it.
“I’ve got no other movement, sir,” Clark chimed in. “Whatever that is in front of us appears to be the extent of this evening’s activities. Four hundred meters now, sir.”
While the captain knew the units on either side of him should have heard his report to the battalion, he wanted to be sure. Digging out his notebook, he located the day’s duty roster and then keyed his microphone.
On his left was a Stryker, another Abrams to Havoc’s right. Neither commander had observed anything out of the ordinary.
“Looks like it’s just us right now, Sergeant,” he commented to Clark. “We’re the prettiest girl at the dance.”
“Tango is now at 250 meters, sir. I don’t like it,” Clark replied, his tone growing serious as the object approached closer.
“Seal the tank,” Norse ordered, reaching up to close the commander’s hatch.
By the time he felt the pressure in his ears, it became clear that the unidentified object was following the surface street that passed beneath Havoc’s bridge-top perch. That realization changed the captain’s assessment of the situation.
“Have they created some sort of heat barrier or shield at the front of a vehicle?” he asked no one specifically.
“Could be,” Clark responded, “But why? They have to know we’re going to blow apart anything approaching the wall. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.”
“Maybe they think we’re asleep at the wheel,” Norse speculated.
“200 meters, Captain,” Clark reported a moment later.
Sighing, Norse reached for the microphone attached to Havoc’s external loudspeaker. “Attention! Attention! Unknown party approaching the exit four overpass, you are entering a restricted zone. I repeat, you are entering a restricted zone. Turn around immediately, or by order of the president of the United States, we will engage with lethal force. This is your one and only warning.”
The entire crew held its breath. The four young soldiers inside Havoc hated this part of their assignment more than anything they had experienced in their fledgling military careers. Killing their fellow Americans was the stuff of nightmares, low morale, and endless prayers petitioning for forgiveness.
The army was obviously well aware of the issues associated with maintaining the wall. Each soldier, regardless of rank, received hours and hours of training, evaluation, consulting, and support.
While attending his first session, Norse had been reminded of the situation faced by Air Force pilots post 9-11. After the terrorists had used commercial airlines as weapons, the fighter jocks flying patrols over North America knew they might be ordered to shoot down a plane packed with innocent civilians in order to take down the guerillas.
While common sense dictated the logic of killing a few to save many, that fact wouldn’t make it any easier to fire the missile – or in Havoc’s case to pull the trigger. It was a dilemma every single man dreaded having to face.
The army had done an excellent job of convincing the garrisons manning the wall that they were on solid, moral ground. Graphic video of mass graves in West Africa depicted the consequences of Ebola, followed closely by facts, figures, and hair-raising statistics of projected death tolls, economic impact, and finally, the potential for World War III should the disease take hold domestically.
Then came the police officer, a grisly old veteran with 30 years of law enforcement under his belt. “If a citizen points a gun at a cop, the peace officer is fully within his rights to kill the offender. If a policeman sees a man walking into a shopping mall with an AK47, lethal force is justified. The situation you soldiers are about to face is no different. You will be protecting the public at large by enforcing the law of the land. Unfortunately, arrest or detainment isn’t an option. Exposure to Ebola-B is no different than a man pointing a gun
at your head. Lethal force is the only means available to enforce the law… to serve and protect American citizens. Due process and individual rights to a trial have been suspended. Everyone inside that wall knows this. Your job isn’t going to be easy, but it is our duty to the general public.”
At the end of his presentation, the cop nodded toward the man controlling the projector. A picture flashed on the screen at the front of the classroom, the portrait showing the police-instructor with what appeared to be his wife and three daughters. “This photograph was taken just last year,” the officer stated. “That is my lovely wife, June, and my three daughters. I love those girls more than anything on this earth. I want every man in this room to know that my family didn’t make it out of Houston. I’ve not heard from them for months. So, when I stand in front of you and deliver my little speech, I know you might be the man who is ordered to kill one of my girls. I’m well aware that it could be any of you who pulls the trigger. But right is right. Duty is duty. The survival of our civilization depends on dedicated men, like you, being able to execute unnatural acts. God Bless the United States of America, and all who serve her.”
It had been a powerful experience.
Yet, the first time Norse was forced to order his men to fire on a group of people trying to sneak past their post, the atmosphere inside Havoc’s basket had been one of remorse and gloom.
There had been five of them, the thermal imager projecting enough detail to indicate one was a woman, another a child. Norse had violated procedure, warning the approaching group no less than three times. Still, they kept on coming, stumbling through a patch of pine trees, most likely hoping the foliage would somehow protect them.
The captain again went against his orders, ripping a burst of 7.62 MM shells above their heads in a warning shot, screaming on the loudspeaker for them to turn around. But they kept on coming, finally making a mad dash for the parkway.