World War III
Home Front
A Novel of the Next American Revolution
Book One – As Day turns to Night
William C. Seigler
Copyright © 2013 by William C. Seigler
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author or publisher.
All characters appearing in the work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For information contact: [email protected]
Cover Design by Outlaws Publishing LLC
Published by New Trails Publishing
January 2017 Second Edition:
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to all honest peace officers, people such as Frank Serpico.
You know who the bad ones are, the ones who brutalize citizens. You do not have to maintain the code of silence.
To those of you who are out there every day serving and protecting, thank you.
Acknowledgements
No man is an island, and I am certainly no exception. There are a number of people who helped me with this story, whom I wish to thank publicly. These include Dr. Diann Ainsworth who helped me with the cantankerous English language. Lia Wyatt, who read the manuscript, made corrections, and offered feedback, was particularly helpful. Conversations with John Wyatt were also insightful.
I would like to thank photographers Jennifer Kamper, Teresa Villalobos, Zachary Peterson, and R.M. “Doc” Ballard for lending their photographic skills to the cover image. I would also like to thank models Lexi Kamper and Christa Whitehead for their willingness to be photographed on a chilly day in November.
Thanks go to James Valentine for assistance concerning the U.S. Navy. I would also like to thank USMC veterans Robert DeLoach, Anthony Chavez, and Spencer Pickrell for insights concerning Marine operations. I would like to thank the officers of the Weatherford College Campus Police for helpful discussions into problems involving police work in today’s society. I would also like to thank Timothy Poston, Professor of Criminal Justice, for help concerning forensic science and recent police activities in the United States. Finally, I would like to thank my publisher, J.C. Hulsey for all his support.
I am grateful to these people and others not mentioned who, knowingly or unknowingly, provided inspiration for this book. However, any mistakes or errors are my private property.
This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to persons living or dead, other than historical figures, is purely coincidental. W.C.S. December, 2013
Prologue
Syria dragged on, and here in the states we ignored it. Syria was far away, and most of us couldn’t tell one dictator from another. Many people didn’t watch the news anymore; no one much believed what was said.
Few paid any attention to politics. Most didn’t even bother to vote, and many actively avoided jury duty. I was no better than the rest. The Fourth of July and Memorial Day only meant grilling outdoors and drinking beer.
If you questioned or doubted the President, Hussein Potentater, you were a racist or a religious extremist at the very least. Don’t disagree and you were a good person; disagree and you might be a dangerous terrorist. The president had promised everything would get better, so like my friends I voted for him. I didn’t pay any attention to the rest.
The government had already started spying on the people, but I had nothing to hide. Then the IRS thing broke. Using the IRS against political opponents was not new, but subjecting certain groups to unreasonable scrutiny and then running an IRS audit on all their members hurt too many taxpayers to ignore. People lined up either behind the president or behind the racists, right wing radicals, tea partiers, conspiracy kooks, or whatever you wanted to call them.
In response, there were demonstrations and counter demonstrations which often resulted in police beating people back into submission. I didn’t care; it wasn’t my problem if the IRS targeted groups somebody in government didn’t like.
My dad had been wounded in Vietnam, and granddad had fought in World War II. I managed to graduate high school. There was no draft like in dad’s time, so I had nothing to worry about. It had been dad’s second time around so I was a bonus baby, late in coming and completely unexpected.
The education system had been so dumbed down, after the baby boomers got old enough to get into positions of power, that now the “Stupid American” had become a worldwide joke.
Then the Syrian civil war really exploded. Even I noticed the Syrian thing; you could not avoid noticing it. Some senator met with the rebels, and the president got accused of arming the terrorists who wanted to kill us. Only racists or right wingers said such things though.
My girlfriend decided to trade up, and I was down for a week or two. I started hitting the worst bars on the south side, slumming I called it. Guess it made me feel superior. I met some tattooed girl with really outlandish red hair; I mean not a natural red but weird. The lip ring made kissing uncomfortable; maybe that was the purpose. I guess she took a liking to me, though I don’t know why.
I just wanted to get in, get what I wanted, and get out. Her place was a mess. This one was no housekeeper. I almost freaked out when I saw all the guns and gun parts just laying around. This chick was nuts but fun.
I won’t go into details, but she could make you forget about being dumped. The next day, I planned to split. She suggested a shower, and by the time I finished she was cursing at some news report on the computer. Israel had attacked Iran by air, and the Russians had gone into Syria. President Potentater had ordered the Navy in the Mediterranean to defend the rebels.
The red haired chick had a rifle out. I didn’t know what kind it was at the time; I didn’t care. I should have left then. Don’t know how things would have turned out.
The phone rang and I heard her say, “Mind if I bring a friend?”
She turned on the TV. Demonstrations were breaking out all over the country, some against Iran, some against Israel. Some were people who didn’t want another war. Cops were beating people and dragging them off. Some senator, an old lady from California, was demanding that all real Americans turn in their guns.
Worse, there were scattered attacks on infrastructure all over the country. The news anchor said it was likely that these attacks were the work of white, right-wing extremists. Red changed the channel. The next channel displayed a map of the U.S. showing probable terrorist attacks in various parts of the country. There was a shootout in New York City. The cops said the shooters appeared to be Iranian. The commentator called in an expert who thought the cops were xenophobic.
The chick had disappeared. Maybe she was making coffee. I went back to the news. There were other attacks. People shouting, “Allah Akbar,” were shooting people in three northern cities and one in California.
My TV watching was interrupted when something landed on the couch beside me. It was a gun, black and sleek. It looked like what politician’s parade around with and called assault rifles. She had a bag and removed another gun from it. About that time, the nerve endings on my scalp began to tingle.
“What’s this?” I asked, sounding totally stupid.
“This one’s an automatic pistol, .40 caliber. The one next to you is an AR-15. You ev
er fired one of those?”
“I’ve never even held one,” I replied, feeling embarrassed.
“We’ve been invited to the range by some friends. Want to go?”
I knew people who “went to the range,” but I had never gone myself. The only thing I had ever shot was in video games, got pretty good at it. I figured what the heck, I was game. I had no plans this weekend, and home reminded me of my ex-girlfriend. Besides, I didn’t want to look like some sort of wuss in front of this chick. Even I have my pride.
Her car was no cleaner than her place. Hoped I hadn’t picked up any diseases. We drove out into the country; I began wondering where this range was. Finally, down a dirt road, we came upon a car blocking our progress. Several men appeared out of the woods wearing camos and approached the car. She told them she was here for grandma’s cookies only to be informed that they were moldy.
“I guess I’ll have to look someplace else,” she replied. The car moved out of the way.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Oh that, they’re friends, just to keep people out.”
She parked in the woods. We got out, and she gave me a couple of weapons to carry and a heavy bag. I could see several other cars parked up under trees and could hear firing in the distance.
Under different circumstances this would have been a nice walk on a tree-lined path down to the stream. I saw some of the narrow side valleys were being used as firing ranges.
We joined a group of mostly men at the bottom. They were in camouflage. I looked kind of dorky in jeans and a tee shirt. Some guy gave her a one-armed hug and they kissed. No reason for me to get jealous. It was a long way back to town.
We stood on the edge of the crowd gathered in a clearing. Someone was giving a safety briefing. I surreptitiously scanned the crowd. There were some other chicks, cute in their camos. Some were almost as outlandish as my date. I was surprised to see quite a few Mexicans and a couple of black guys.
These camouflaged people looked like what the news called right-wing extremists. What were these guys doing here? I started wondering how to get out without being noticed.
“Hey, he’s talking to you,” said Red impatiently.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Go with this gentleman,” the bearded guy was saying, “he’ll get you started with basic safety and weapons training.”
“Sure,” I said and quickly glanced at the redhead as she turned away. Apparently there was a range open. Range is too kind a word. Any open area they could find held various pieces of junk which were being shot at, mostly parts of old cars usually festooned with pictures of various politicians or zombies. Everything was full of holes. This wasn’t a new hobby for these people.
After my briefing, I was taken to the twenty-five-yard range. I didn’t mind it too much; most of my classmates were chicks. Maybe I could score a couple of phone numbers. I forgot to put in my earplugs. Man, these things were loud.
Earplugs installed, it was soon my turn on the firing line. Range discipline is something I’d never experienced. They were serious about safety. I got yelled at once for turning around and pointing the gun – oh, excuse me, rifle – in the wrong direction.
To say I wasn’t having fun is an understatement, but what the heck. I wasn’t about to let these tattooed chicks outshoot me. The fifty-yard range was a bit more challenging, but I soon got the hang of it. Now, time to try the one-hundred-yard target.
There were steel targets, and targets which would spin when I hit one. I had no idea how far one hundred yards was until then. A really cute chick was spotting for me; hadn’t seen my ride in a while. I wouldn’t have minded leaving with this one instead.
I barely noticed the helicopter. There was shouting and rifle fire back up on the road. Then they were on us. The helicopter was circling and men riding in it were firing at us. From across the creek, men in black ninja suits were coming in on us. Shots hit near me; I had enough sense to get down. What the devil was happening? Then the loudspeaker on the helicopter started in.
“Put down your weapons, you are under arrest. Put down your weapons, and sit on the ground. Put your hands on top of your heads. Any attempt at escape will be considered resisting arrest.”
I did as I was told, but some of the others took cover and began firing back. I saw a figure across the creek go down. Firing intensified on both sides. More men came down and across the creek.
“Get up!” someone was screaming. He handed me my rifle and tugged me off toward the woods. Several of us were escaping up a small ravine. Suddenly there was a stinging in my leg. I’m hit! That thought slashed through my brain as I went down. A chick came up behind me. “It’s only a scratch; get moving.”
“I’m shot! I need a hospital.”
“It’s a scratch!”
She pushed me, and up the ravine I went. I thought we had escaped the trap. There was a group of people up on the ridge. I went and sat with the wounded. Some guy cut open my jeans and poured something on my wound. It stung and I wanted to claw at it.
He looked up. “You’re okay now. Join the others.”
“What?”
He pointed. “Over there.” They were moving off the ridge, not away from the fighting but down the side, so they could cross the creek.
“Where are we going, I asked someone?”
“You got no camos?”
“Sorry, it’s my first time.”
“We’re counterattacking.”
“What, I just want to get out of here.”
“What do you think you’re here for?”
“A chick I met last night asked me to go with her to the range.”
“Well, you’re here.”
I tried to stop, but the crush of people behind me propelled me forward. We crossed downstream and made our way quickly up the hill. I was younger than most, but was having trouble keeping up.
We approached where the cars were parked. A couple of chicks I recognized were stripped bare and lying on the ground face down spread eagle.
One of the girls was down in a black SUV; the cop was raping her. “You sorry . . .,” said one of our guys, who then shot him at close range. The others were shot too. There were only five or six.
I had only seen dead people at funerals. Everything was clean and neat. There is nothing clean or neat about people shot at close range.
This was insane. We can’t kill cops! I vomited and almost lost control of my bowel. Got to get out of here! I tried to run, but dropped my rifle and tripped over it. I went down hard, hitting a tree and scraping my face.
They set the vehicles on fire. Whoever was in charge led this group of people back down to their range. The helicopter had landed, and the guys in ninja suits stood over prisoners who were kneeling with their hands on their heads.
I can’t remember too much of what happened next. We were across the creek and firing into the police. The helicopter was set on fire, and they were pushed back. More black SUVs came down the dirt road. There was no getting out that way.
I finally found Red. She was firing from behind a chunk of debris as I ran up beside her, a torn blouse exposing her right breast.
She saw my stare. “They wanted to feel me up.” She fired another short burst.
“You got any ammo?” she demanded.
I handed her the rifle she had lent me. There were plenty of rounds left. Don’t think I had even fired it.
“Here,” she pushed empty magazines at me and a sack. “Make yourself useful. Load these.”
At first, all I did was spill bullets on the ground. Later, I learned to call them cartridges. She ripped the first one from my hands and threw an empty at me. I got to my knees and leaned against a tree. My fingers bled, but I kept the magazines coming.
The people attacking us turned out to be some sort of federal types, and they were firing hollow point ammunition. I found out later that hollow points are illegal for armies to use in combat. They tried to block our escape, but fortunately, there w
ere other ways out of the woods. I was a mess mentally and physically, but at least I left with the girl with which I came. She spent a couple of days helping me get my head together.
There had been other such attacks, not on Iranian sleeper cells, but on other “right-wing domestic terrorists” as we were called. I also got my indoctrination. I learned about how Congress had been bought, how paper money was being printed so fast it had lost most of its value, how cops were beating people to death, tasering suspects till they died, or just shooting them.
Now don’t get me wrong, there were sheriffs and chiefs of police who did not cooperate. In fact, in some states they organized the people to fight.
That is how I came to be hiding in these woods in the cold. It wouldn’t be so bad, but it had started to drizzle about an hour ago. A short distance from here was a government internment camp; it’s one of those places the news media told us only conspiracy kooks believed in.
At daybreak, our trucks will drive through the gates and we will liberate the prisoners. My team is to lay down covering fire. I can hear their engines now.
Chapter 1 – Breakout
“No one really knows all the details of how it happened, but one day we woke up and the executive branch had taken over,” Craig said looking over at me. “There was no big announcement or anything. The Attorney General was ordered to testify before Congress; the president said he didn’t have to, and he didn’t, leaving Congress to just sit there and look stupid.”
“Yeah, I know.” I had come to know many things in the past few months. The Congress-members of the party in power supported DOJ and the president. Heck, there was really only one party now. The other political party was more a country club for the permanently out-of-power elites.
Its ruling junta had destroyed the state parties by giving itself power to overrule anything the state parties did. This and other outrages lost the support of the rank and file members and they bailed in droves.
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