Judgment Day (Book 3): Retribution

by JE Gurley

  He had hoped Hershimer would realize the hopelessness of his situation and surrender quickly, but the general’s intense opposition quickly dampened his optimism. Schumer detested unnecessary damage to the buildings and the airport. He also grieved at the loss of life on both sides. Casualties on his side had so far been light, but each death disturbed him. He could only stiffen his resolve and push on with the assault.

  He turned to his second in command, Major Terry Richards, and jabbed his finger at a point on the map lying across the bridge railing. “Order the helicopters to sweep in from the east to take out any further resistance from the airport. Captain Wells and his men will move toward downtown under the cover of darkness. Once they set up a forward base of operations, we’ll send in tanks to support them.”

  Richards followed Schumer’s finger as it traced the route the tanks would take with the narrow beam of his penlight. It was a bold move but one that could end the conflict. He nodded his agreement.

  “It might work. They seem to be losing interest in fighting.”

  “We can’t stop until they surrender completely.” Schumer pointed to another point on the map. “Luke Air Base. This must be where the general moved his F-16s. It’s the only field close enough that can handle them. If he sends them against us, we’ll lose more good people. I don’t want that to happen. Contact Salt Lake City. Order our Thunderbolts to attack Luke tonight.” He turned and looked at Richards. “If I’m wrong, we’ll pay dearly, but I can’t take the chance of waiting until morning to be certain. Pray I’m right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When the A-10s signal their attack, we move in with everything we’ve got. We’ll overwhelm them. I can’t let this battle degenerate into a house-to-house melee. Urban warfare is messy enough as it is. We need this city intact.”

  As Richards left for the radio, Schumer glanced at the sporadic bursts of flame as the tank and artillery shells found targets.

  “God, I hate war,” he muttered.

  General Hershimer well understood the hopelessness of his situation but did not let that sway his confidence. He had underestimated Colonel Schumer’s tactical abilities and was paying the price. At dawn, he would unleash the F-16s he had held in reserve and make short work of Schumer’s tanks. Without armor, it would be an easy job to mop up Schumer’s civilian army. He also had one last hold card left to play if all else failed.

  Captain Lacey’s foray to Red Rock nuclear first strike base in Marana had produced several low-yield tactical nuclear warheads. Before he allowed the city fall into enemy hands, he would destroy it; obliterate it from the map completely. The new United States government could afford to lose one more city but it could not afford to lose control.

  He ducked as another artillery round whistled overhead. It landed in the Salt River a hundred yards away, but the explosion shook the earth, splashing whiskey from the glass he held in his hand. He quickly downed the remainder, his third shot of the night, and slammed the empty tumbler on the table beside him.

  “I’ll show that black bastard what I’m made of.”

  Bahati was afraid. If she had known that war meant killing and destruction, she would never have suggested that they fight. It had been an impulse, a desire keep the freedom she enjoyed. She had not realized then what a coward she was. Each time a tank fired she almost jumped out of her skin. She wanted to dig a hole and hide or run until the noise stopped. She was no good with a weapon, so she had chosen to help in the first aide station, but the battered and bleeding bodies pouring in had been too much for her. Overwhelmed by their pain, she had eventually fled into the night. Now, ashamed to return, she stood alone, staring into the city, wondering how many more would die.

  On the journey from Salt Lake City, she had tried to get closer to Martin Schumer, but ensconced in his persona of Colonel Schumer, he had held her off, intent on what he had to do. She had not known him during the zombie attack and the digging of the Big Ditch except as a figure of authority. Now, she knew he was a warm, caring man, but he had set such feelings aside as he contemplated the attack on Phoenix. She worried for him more than for herself. She knew that when the fighting stopped, she would return to normal, haunted by her experiences but still the same. She wasn’t as sure about Colonel Martin Schumer. He seemed to take each death personally. He seemed determined to inflict as little damage as possible on his enemy. The little she knew about war, which admittedly came mostly from books or movies, such an attitude could lead to defeat, especially if your enemy held no such convictions.

  Voices to her right startled her until she saw that it was just two people sneaking away from their duties to smoke cigarettes. She watched them, noted the calmness in their voices as they spoke, and felt ashamed at her own fears. She could not help Martin if she fell to pieces. He needed her, now more than ever. She took a deep breath and went to find him.

  24

  Wellton, Arizona to Phoenix

  It mattered very little to Guy Ferguson that his train was shorter and now under the command of strangers. His friend Hugh O’Malley had told him that they were doing the right thing and he believed him. All that mattered was that his train was moving once more and he was the engineer. It rushed through the night like a serpent threading its way toward prey, dark and silent. He held no opinion on the munies that had been freed. That was beyond his expertise. He knew trains.

  O’Malley stood beside him in the cab of the locomotive engine, bracing himself against the wall as he swayed like a drunken sailor. Without constant repair, sunken ties created almost imperceptible dips in the rails, difficult to see with the naked eye, but easily felt by the rushing locomotive.

  He turned to O’Malley. “What do your friends have planned once we reach Phoenix?”

  O’Malley smiled and rubbed his hands together as if he were on his way to a tavern brawl. “Oh, a wee bit of ruckus to liven things up.”

  “They won’t hurt my train, will they?” He had felt the damage to the boxcar as if it had been an extension of his body, a dull ache in his side.

  “No, Guy. Just a bit of mischief with the locals.”

  Ferguson nodded, and then cocked one eye wide open and glared at O’Malley. “Okay, but no more of them rockets.” He stared out the window into the darkness a few moments before adding wistfully, “You know, I haven’t pulled a train into Phoenix since the Sunset Limited stopped running there in ’96.”

  Amtrak had discontinued direct service to Phoenix in 1996. Passengers had to ride a bus from Phoenix to Maricopa to meet the Sunset Limited.

  “You’ve been running this train for a long time. You weren’t at Big Bayou, were you?”

  Ferguson frowned at mention of Big Bayou, the worst rail disaster in years, when in 1993, a barge damaged a bridge outside of Mobile, Alabama, and the Limited derailed and went into the water, killing forty-seven passengers.

  “No, I was off duty. If I had been, I might have kept her upright on the tracks.” He reached out and patted the control panel. “In 2011, we carried 100,000 passengers from New Orleans to L.A. without so much as a scratch, but the only thing anyone remembers is Big Bayou.”

  “Don’t get riled, Guy. No one thinks it was your fault. You’re the best railroader of us all.”

  This brought a smile to Ferguson’s face. “Damned straight.”

  “When we reach Maricopa, I’ll hop off and set the switches. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “It’ll be good to see Phoenix again,” Ferguson mused. “Unless they’ve blown it up by the time we get there.”

  Two cars back from Ferguson and O’Malley, Mace was checking his weapon. Around him, Soweta’s men joked and spoke casually, as if forgetting that one of their own, Phillips, was dead. He did not know the TSS people very well, but they appeared nervous and frightened, even more frightened than the Agua Caliente people who had been through fights before. He and twelve others wore the uniforms of the original escort. When the train reached the marshalling yard, he hoped they would
pass any casual inspection. He wanted to subdue any guards quickly and quietly with as little bloodshed as possible. His desire was not from any loyalty to the military. Their deaths would not bother him that much, but a prolonged fight would put his people at risk. The entire operation was riskier than he cared to admit, but if they fanned out, destroyed a few buildings, and made some noise, the city’s defenders might think the rebels had surrounded them, breaking their will to fight.

  Vince, in the car behind his, had brought with him several LAWS rockets, a case of C-4 plastic explosives, and a case each of hand grenades and flash grenades. He was like a kid in a toy store. Only the limited space in the jeep had prevented him from emptying the Davis-Monthan arsenal.

  He had forced each one of his people to view the munies as Erin’s people moved them from the train. It was almost a scene from a Holocaust movie – thin, emaciated bodies; empty, staring eyes; sunken cheeks, pale from loss of blood. Many of the munies would not make it. They were too far gone in their illness, their bodies used up, kept alive only by the medical devices connected to them. He wanted each of his fighters to carry that picture and that thought in their mind as they fought.

  He felt the train slow and looked questioningly at Soweta.

  “O’Malley’s throwing the switch at Maricopa.”

  Sure enough, the train had barely slowed before it once more began to pick up speed. Ferguson, the recalcitrant engineer, seemed determined to push the train to its limits, even if he rattled and jolted his passengers to the point of seasickness. Mace opened the door just a crack and looked out as Maricopa passed from view. Next stop – Phoenix.

  Lieutenant Simpson watched the train slow as it entered the Phoenix marshalling yard. As it stopped, ten soldiers jumped down from two of the cars.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  One of the men replied, “Trouble on the tracks.”

  The man glanced to the north as an explosion lit up the night sky. “There’s trouble here too,” Simpson said. “We’ll watch the train until morning. Trucks will come then to transport the munies to the hospital.”

  “What’s happening there?” The man pointed to the sound of gunfire.

  “Nothing we can’t handle.”

  As he spoke, the soldiers from the train began casually to move away from the train and ease along the tracks, stretching their muscles as if exhausted from the long ride. Simpson didn’t notice anything awry until the tall man with whom he had spoken pointed his weapon at him. At the same time, the boxcar doors slid open, revealing two .30 caliber machine guns and many armed civilians.

  “Can you handle this, Lieutenant? Order your men to stand down. There are no munies aboard, so there’s no reason to die for an empty train.”

  Simpson tensed. His men nervously pointed their weapons toward the train. He had machine guns as well and almost as many men, but his orders had been to protect the train, not attack it. In the last few hours, his faith in his commanding officer had slipped and his desire to die with it. What they had assumed to be a small band of rebels, was in fact an entire army, well equipped and determined. Now, he confronted more rebels coming from the south. He lowered his weapon.

  “We surrender.”

  His men dropped their weapons and walked toward the train, hands in the air. The tall man turned to one of his companions. “Vince, lock them in one of the medical trailers. Have two men keep an eye on them but don’t harm them.”

  The man nodded. “Follow me, please,” he said.

  Simpson shook his head. In his first and only fight, he had meekly surrendered without firing a shot. He fell in line with the others.

  Mace observed the artillery fire falling into downtown Phoenix and the airport and realized that the rebel army was very substantial. For the first time in two days, he felt things were going their way. The lieutenant’s surrender without a fight probably spoke of most of the city’s defenders. It was easy to don a uniform, take orders, and chase down and capture unarmed munies, but fighting an army as well equipped as your own was another matter entirely.

  He recalled his days in Afghanistan cowering in a foxhole or any available cover during an enemy mortar bombardment, frightening under the best of circumstances, even more so when you did not know when the attack that the barrage usually presaged would come or how many men would come with it. Each explosion, each whistling round had sent shivers up his spine. Even the reality that you didn’t hear the one that got you didn’t help. Those he did not fear. It was the one that maimed and mutilated that he dreaded most. Too many of his friends had gone home missing an arm or a leg. Too many had gone home in body bags.

  He spoke to those gathered around him. They had already discussed their plans. This was more of a friendly reminder to be careful. “Okay, spread out in groups of five. Don’t engage if you don’t have to. Set C-4 charges in buildings, fuel tanks, anything to attract attention just as Vince showed you. Set the timers for one hour, and then get back here.”

  Vince and Elliot led two groups. Men from the TSS led two others. Mace watched them disappear into the darkness, hoping they all returned safely. Soweta and his men remained at the yards to watch the train and the prisoners. Taking his own four men, he headed east along the tracks past the repair sheds to Jackson Street. In the distance, explosions wracked the airport. His destination was not that far. Half a mile from the marshalling yard, in a formerly quiet residential neighborhood, he and his companions placed their allotted six C-4 explosive devices beneath propane tanks, inside houses, and parked vehicles. The resulting explosions would make the defenders think an opposing force was near the city’s southern edge and send troops to investigate.

  A series of loud blasts from the west rocked the night. At first, he wondered what was happening. Then he saw the telltale streaks of air-to-ground missiles. Someone was getting plastered by an air strike. He hoped it was the good guys doing the plastering.

  Once they had placed and armed the devices, they began the return trek to the train. The lack of small arms fire nearby led him to believe that his ruse was working. No one had spotted them yet. Sporadic firing from the direction of the train ended that hope.

  As they got nearer to the train, they saw that Soweta’s men were under attack, not from soldiers, but from zombies. Almost fifty of the creatures raced around the train where Soweta and his men had taken cover. Some had leaped onto the top of the cars, pounding uselessly on the metal roofs. Men fired from open doors and windows, killing several zombies, but the remainder disappeared into the darkness only to emerge from another direction.

  Mace checked his watch. Twenty minutes remained until the C-4 went off. He had planned on being long gone by then. The zombies were going to make their escape more difficult. Attacking with only his four men would be suicidal. Time for a change of plans.

  “Come on. We’ll swing north and meet the others.”

  He hoped Soweta did nothing foolish until he returned with the remaining men. Together, they could kill of chase off the zombies. Their presence had been a surprise. Most of the zombies in the area had left or died during the Sarin gas attack months ago. He remembered Soweta’s observation that he had seen many zombies moving north as others had before. They had been unlucky enough to run into a pack of migrating zombies. If other zombies were moving through the city, perhaps it would throw a little scare into the defenders; help break their resolve.

  Vince was the first to show up. He smiled as he said, “We found a gas station with fuel in the tanks. It should put on quite a show.”

  “We have other problems – zombies.”

  Vince looked toward the train. “How many?”

  “Enough,” Mace replied. “We’ll wait on the others.”

  Mace was eager to help Soweta, but could not leave the remaining teams to straggle back to the train unaware of the danger. The chance for an accidental crossfire was too great. Elliot showed up next with his group. The others followed closely on his heels.

  “Zombies,�
�� Mace cautioned them. “Be careful firing at the train. Don’t hit any of our people.”

  The sound of more small arms fire in the distance made him wonder if more zombies had wandered into the city. The unexpected zombie incursion would cause more confusion than his small group could. Separating the volunteers into two groups, they approached the train from the side and from the rear, avoiding the train’s headlights and the flares Soweta had tossed out the door of the boxcar. Mace shot one zombie beating uselessly at the roof of the boxcar. He fell to the ground. Several others fell as bullets found their mark. Thirty nearly simultaneous C-4 explosions rent the air, sending geysers of flame high into the night sky. The zombies stopped attacking and looked at the fires; then slinked away into the darkness. Mace had the distinct impression that fear had not been the reason for their retreat. Whatever the reason, the battle was finished, at least for his people. In the distance, the sound of tanks firing indicated a more intense attack was beginning. It was time to retreat.

  “Let’s load up and leave,” Mace ordered. “Inform the lieutenant that he and his men can come with us or stay here. Their choice.”

  Vince smiled. “I think maybe he’ll come with us. They seem a bit disillusioned with their leader.”

  Mace looked back upon at the destruction they had caused. Flames billowed into the air from five different areas. “I hope this takes the pressure off whoever is attacking the city.”