State of Rebellion (Collapse Series)

by Summer Lane

“According to reports,” Colonel Rivera says, “they’ve got trucks, tanks, RPGs and a lot of soldiers on foot.”

  “Are they going to try to do a full on push?” I ask.

  “I doubt it. They think we won’t provide much of an obstacle.”

  “They’re wrong.”

  Colonel Rivera’s lips twitch. An almost smile.

  “They may be,” he says.

  Brother. Everyone is afraid of being optimistic today.

  I brush frizzy wisps of hair out of my face, my radio crackling on my belt. It’s one of the few times it’s made noise all day today. We’ve been trying to keep radio communication on the quiet side, since Omega is scanning for our signals. Transmissions are limited to code words.

  I nervously pick at the buttons on my uniform, trying to maintain a poker face. I’m not a commander, but I am an officer, and these men and women can sense when their superiors are feeling less-than-cheery about a situation. I don’t want to give off negative vibes. Negativity spreads like wildfire in an environment like this. It’s a big no-no.

  So I quit picking at my buttons and fold my arms across my chest, careful to keep my face expressionless. I glance at Chris, who is the picture of calm in the midst of an impending hurricane. Nothing about his demeanor would suggest that he’s nervous. I don’t know how he does it.

  And then the waiting begins.

  Omega is too far back into the hills for us to even try ambushing a section of their party. And even if they were here, it’s not like we can simply pop out and pull some guerilla warfare ninja stuff on a five thousand-man army. It’s going to take more than that.

  It’s going to require us remaining as hidden as possible. Getting into a head to head push with Omega would be lethal. We’re far too outnumbered. But we’re not necessarily outgunned. We’ve got some great weaponry of our own, and if we pay attention to the strategic smarts of Chris, we can win this thing.

  I hope.

  The first mortar round shocks me. It’s not that I haven’t been expecting something to hit us today. It’s more like I was hoping it would never happen. But obviously it did, so yeah. Problem.

  The mortar whistles through the air like an oversized boulder, exploding upon impact with the ground. It hits a patch of dirt on the side of the hill, shattering into a million pieces of hot shrapnel. The grass catches fire and the troops in the ditch seem frozen for a second.

  But only for a second.

  “They’re on us now!” someone yells. “Move it, move it!”

  I have to shake myself to move, too. The first explosion is always a surprise, no matter how many times I go through one. Chris goes deeper into the ditch and I follow him, surprised to see Jeff coming towards us.

  “Get back to your platoon!” Chris barks.

  “You’re going to want to see this,” Jeff replies, ignoring his order.

  Mortar round number two explodes, this time a lot closer to the ditch than I’m comfortable with. I throw my arm out to keep my balance. My ears start ringing. The smell of burnt soil and metal sizzles through the air.

  Yeah. All too familiar.

  “Get back to your post, Jeff,” Chris commands, turning to a soldier kneeling on the ground with a radio. “Or take your issues up with Cassidy.”

  Oh, so I’m a mediator now?

  “Come on, Cassie,” Jeff says. “You need to see this.”

  “This isn’t the time to get sentimental!” I reply.

  Mortar round number three detonates somewhere in the distance, too far away for me to see. I grimace. It’s like Omega is reaching out with their feelers, trying to figure out exactly where we are. Reconnaissance fire, Chris would call it.

  The look on Jeff’s face is serious. Alarmed, even.

  I follow him up the side of the ditch, ducking into the undergrowth of weeds and bushes. His platoon and vehicle convoy is a few hundred feet back. To my surprise, Sophia is standing at the rear of a vehicle, arms crossed. Staring at a screen of some sort.

  “What is that?” I ask. “It looks like a laptop.”

  “It’s a thermographic camera,” Sophia replies, avoiding eye contact. “It gives us a heat reading of what’s coming our way.”

  “Where’s the camera itself?” I ask.

  “Hidden farther down the interstate,” Jeff replies, frowning. “It’s one of several that Alexander’s scouting team was planting when they came under fire.”

  Oh.

  Sophia’s face is stony as I step next to her and look at the screen. After all this time, using electronic gadgets seems strange, but if they give us the edge we need, why not?

  The screen is a seething mass of red and yellow.

  “What is all this?” I ask. “It looks like drunk radar.”

  “It’s people,” he replies. “Thermography picks up the body heat of living things. That wave of color right there? That’s the wave of soldiers on foot just around the corner. They’ve got tanks and artillery up front. RPGs, and mortars. We’re so outnumbered it’s not even funny.”

  “We knew we would be outnumbered,” I state.

  “But this is insane. Their weaponry is so advanced.”

  “We’ve got plenty of our own weaponry. That’s why we joined the National Guard.” I pause. “We can do this.”

  As if to mock me, something bright and flaming streaks through the air above us. I stop what I’m doing and stare at it, realizing a second too late what it is. Artillery fire, blind fire from troops miles away.

  Thankfully, the blast doesn’t hit anybody on our front lines, but these blows are getting dangerously closer. Way too close. They must have spotters hiding in the brush, giving map coordinates to the big guns. Our snipers should have taken them out by now.

  A disturbing thought occurs to me then.

  I take off through the brush, sliding down the side of the ditch, ignoring the rungs on the ladder. “Chris!” I curl my fingers around his forearm, focusing his full attention on me. “Listen. Omega isn’t even here yet, and they’re already hitting us? That’s not normal, right?”

  “If you have a theory-”

  “-Yes, I do.” I lower my voice slightly. “Remember when we were going through Bakersfield the first time? Just you and me? There was Omega troops there and other people. Mercenaries.” I let my words sink in for a moment before continuing. “What if we underestimated Omega’s number? What if our scouts were wrong and there are way more than five thousand troops coming our way? If Omega is using mercenaries to supplement their ground troops…” I trail off, noting the look of hardened resolve in Chris’s eyes.

  “If you’re right,” he says, “then we need to pull back and reassess. We were prepared for five thousand, not ten thousand or anything more.”

  Another mortar round. Another blast of artillery fire.

  “That thermo graphic camera they’re looking at in Jeff’s platoon isn’t showing us everything,” I say. “Omega’s not stupid. They can find ways to cloak their numbers.”

  Chris sets his jaw.

  “We’ll hold our position here a little bit longer. If things go-”

  His words are drowned out. A ball of flames streaks right into the ditch. It happens in slow motion. I see what’s going to happen before it even does. A group of men dive for cover as Chris throws his arm around my waist, pushing me behind him. We drop to the ground. All I feel from that point on is a wall of pressure. Like getting sacked by a three hundred pound linebacker. I can’t breathe, I feel heat and thousands of tiny fingers tear at my skin.

  Chris is shielding my body with his. I squeeze my eyes shut, nothing but the harsh ripping sound of the explosion turning to a high pitched ringing – and then silence. After a few beats – minutes, perhaps seconds – I barely manage to lift my head off the ground. Dust and smoke permeate the ditch, turning me almost blind. I can’t hear anything. I am deaf to the world around me. Something hot and wet slicks down the sides of my neck. Blood. My eardrums have burst. Chris rolls into a crouch, looking far more bal
anced than I feel. His neck is covered in blood, too.

  “Pull back!” he mouths.

  I rise to my feet and fall back down, my legs shaky. My heart is pumping way too fast. I’m dizzy, and as I stumble to the side of the ditch, I fall over the dead body of one of our own. His body is twisted at an unnatural angle, the side of his face burned, skin sliding off bone. I have never seen anything so horrifying. I gag and fight the urge to vomit.

  “Pull back!” I yell. I can’t hear my own voice, and that is somehow the most disturbing thing about this situation. “Pull back!”

  Dear God. How did they get so close?

  They must have sent mercenaries ahead of the troops in small enough forces to go undetected and unnoticed, slip behind our lines and cause insane chaos. Disrupt our organization.

  Stop thinking, just move! I tell myself.

  I can feel the detonations of other mortar rounds. Our men are slowly pulling back, but in my opinion, leaving the ditch could be more deadly than staying. The ditch is what’s keeping us from being fried as mortars explode around the hillside.

  Even as these thoughts pass through my head, I look up and catch glimpses of movement in the grassy hillside to the sides of the ditch. Air support is already streaking through the air, our Blackhawks moving like hulking, airborne ships, keeping the enemy ground forces from getting too close.

  “They’re ambushing us!” I yell, as if anyone can actually hear me.

  Or maybe ambush isn’t the correct term. Maybe guerilla warfare are the words I’m searching for. Because that’s what’s happening, isn’t it? These small Omega mercenary forces are using our own tactics against us.

  I hadn’t counted on this.

  I’m sure other people did, but honestly, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Just like we weren’t supposed to get ambushed in Sanger during our last attack.

  The influx of the mercenary forces makes it impossible for us to stay here. Our soldiers start pulling back, scrambling up the side of the ditch, ducking into the undergrowth, running back towards the platoons ensconced in the safety of the vehicle convoys. I climb up the ditch, too, stopping at the top to see where Chris is. In true leadership form, he’s waiting until the last soldier is out of the hole until he climbs up. My heart seizes in my chest as he makes his way towards me. I pray that he’ll make it to the top.

  Please, please, please…

  He does.

  “Cassidy, keep moving,” he yells, breathless.

  I move out of my crouch and run with him, away from the ditch. The telltale sound of bullets whizzing through the air make thwacking noises against the dirt and shrubbery.

  This is all too familiar. Here we are again. On the run.

  It seems to take an eternity to reach Jeff’s vehicles. They are huddled into a tight circle, reminiscent of the rings pioneers would form with their wagon trains to withstand Indian attacks. Chris and I slip inside the ring, literally sliding into the open end of a Humvee. Bullets ping off the armor.

  Chris and I are both covered in blood. We must look horrible.

  “Rivera, we need backup,” he yells into the radio.

  I hear a strange sound, like pressure rising in a glass bottle. A loud pop hits the inside of my brain and I can suddenly hear again. “Whoa,” I mutter. “Weird.”

  “Rivera, do you copy? Over.”

  “Alpha One this is Rivera, over,” the radio crackles. “I can’t send backup in there, get yourself out. You’re in a hole.”

  “We need backup now,” Chris growls. “My men are dying.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s a negative.”

  My heart drops to my stomach. Why wouldn’t Rivera back up the militia? Getting out of here is going to be a lot harder without…I grab the radio on my belt.

  “Sundog, this is Yankee, over,” I say.

  The vehicle suddenly lurches forward and the convoy starts moving, retreating from the area. The mortars and gunfire are going wild outside. I clutch at the door handle for support as the Humvee crashes over a bump, heading downhill.

  “Yankee, this is Sundog,” Manny replies. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “We’re boxed in. We need your help.”

  “Of course you need my help. Rivera’s not good for anything, now is he?”

  “Just do something!”

  Two minutes pass. Two long, painful minutes. It’s impossible to hear anything over the roar of engines and the constant smattering of detonations, but I know the exact instant when Manny arrives. The peppering of bullets on the left hand side of the Humvee suddenly drops off. I press my face against the window and tilt my head up, straining at the sky. Manny’s biplane is ridiculously low, sweeping over the hillside, too close and too fast for anybody to really react. His little biplane is outfitted with modern weaponry and I can almost see Manny’s flight cap blowing back in the wind as he takes another dive.

  He’s brave.

  Or crazy. One of the two.

  Probably just crazy.

  “He’s just in time,” I say.

  “He’s insane,” Chris replies. “Thank God.”

  No kidding.

  What the hell is Rivera’s problem? Denying us backup? Whose side is he on?

  As the convoy continues to move, my body is still buzzing with adrenaline and shock. It’s keeping my senses sharp, keeping any pain from seeping into my body. Something has gouged out a bloody gash in my shoulder. Shrapnel, maybe? Whatever it is, I can’t feel it yet. But I will. Later. If I’m still alive.

  “Hey, what the hell happened?”

  Jeff swings his head around from his spot on the front seat. I hadn’t even realized that he was inside the vehicle until now.

  “Omega sent guerrilla mercenary forces out ahead of their ground troops,” Chris replies. “That’s what happened. How come none of our scouts or our cameras picked this up?”

  “Maybe somebody hacked our system,” Jeff suggests. “Maybe-”

  Bam.

  Something explodes right in front of our Humvee. I scream as the vehicle jerks upward and flips sideways, slamming down on its roof. My head smacks against metal as flames ignite around the car. I am unable to move for a few beats, dazed and shocked from the brunt of the impact. I move slowly to orient myself, crawling on hands and knees as my head spins. The scene around me melts like hot wax, fading, fading…

  Stay conscious! I scream at myself. Don’t do that!

  I force myself to remain awake, a physical effort that my body fights. I look up, head throbbing. Gasoline, oil…something must be leaking. We have to get out of this vehicle. Now.

  “Cassie, come on, do what I do,” Chris instructs, flipping himself over. The driver is kicking frantically at his door while Jeff’s head lolls to the side. He’s out cold. Great.

  “You get Jeff!” I yell. “I’ll get the door open!”

  Chris moves towards his unconscious brother while I pull on the door handle. No dice. It’s jammed into the dirt, stuck. I kick and kick at the glass, but the windows are too small to climb through, anyway.

  “Chris…” I say. “There’s no way out!”

  Chris drags Jeff’s body from the front seat, resting his boots against the side door. He crawls into the rear of the vehicle, pulling a crowbar out of the equipment area. He uses it to pry the door open, his strong arms doing the work that I couldn’t.

  “You first,” he says. “Get out and find cover. Do not stop moving.”

  I don’t hesitate. I crawl on my hands and knees across the upside down cab, pulling myself through the door, slicing my hands on the shards of glass. I stay low to the ground and turn around, taking Jeff’s shoes, helping yank him through the opening. Chris bears the brunt of his brother’s weight as we drag him outside. The driver follows us out the window, and for the first time today I realize that I know this man. Uriah. He was the sentry guard at Camp Freedom.

  “Uriah?” I say, dazed.

  He doesn’t respond. I follow his line of sight. The Humvee in fro
nt of us has been totaled, a twisted mass of metal and flames. To the right is a slope covered in thick brush and trees. We slide down the dirt embankment, taking Jeff with us. We stay on our stomachs beneath the foliage as I frantically attempt to wake Jeff up. He’s slowing us down. Wake up, wake up!

  I feel the panic begin to creep in.

  Keep it together. Stay calm. Come on, panic is what gets people killed.

  Rivulets of sweat slide down my forehead, slipping behind the collar of my jacket. I’m soaked in the stuff, sticky with blood, dizzy with fear. As I raise my head just enough to see over the bushes, I can only watch in horrified fascination as white streaks of smoke cut through the air. RPGs and mortar rain down on the mountainside, plastering the hills in flames and dramatic sprays of dirt. It all seems to happen in slow motion, like a camera hovering over a scene in a movie.

  And then I see them. Four tiny black dots in the air, coming steadily closer. Silently. Like hawks. Manny’s biplane takes a twist and turns in front of us, diving down the side of the biggest hill, heading towards base with a rumbling screech.

  “Smoke!” Chris yells. Uriah flips onto his back and grabs an air support marker off his belt. It looks like a grenade and works the same way. Pop the key ring, throw the canister and look out. Uriah does exactly that and bright yellow smoke begins spewing from the marker. At that moment Jeff stirs, jerking out of unconsciousness with a start.

  “Easy, easy,” I soothe. “We’re out of the vehicle. Are you injured anywhere I can’t see?”

  “No, I’m okay…” he mumbles. “I just hit my head.”

  “I noticed that. Stay down.”

  The black dots head in our direction, no doubt locking onto the yellow smoke. Chris slaps his hand on the back of my neck and shoves my head down, my cheek pressing against the earth. The black dots are no longer dots, but full-on fighter jets. Allies. Hello, Air Force.

  Did Colonel Rivera order them out here? I thought he had denied us backup.

  The jets streak past so quickly that I can barely track their progress through the air, their engines screaming loud enough to rupture my eardrums all over again. Chris keeps his hand on my head, making it impossible for me to lift myself up and see everything that’s happening – a good thing; otherwise I’d probably end up getting fried by a stray piece of shrapnel.